Laudanum and Lyrium
by Niamh St. George
Summary: "Don't get involved," was what her daddy always told her. "Don't get involved, Mely—folks'll turn you in soon as smile at you, once they figure out what you are." But Amelle "Miracle Mely" Hawke isn't very good at not getting involved. (Dragon Age Wild West AU)
1. Chapter 1

_Don't get involved_, was what her Daddy always told her. _Don't get involved, Mely—folks'll turn you in soon as smile at you, once they figure out what you are._ 'Course, it was easy for her daddy to follow his own advice now. Hard for a dead man to get involved with anything or anybody.

All the same, it was good advice, and more often than not, she followed it. It didn't always make her happy, but it kept her alive, and alive was just as good as happy. Hell, alive was usually _better_ than happy—unhappy was more temporary than dead. And even if it didn't feel like it sometimes, bored was better than dead, too.

So she kept her distance, letting Varric and Isabela scout the towns they stopped in; they always came back with useful information and gossip in equal parts (sometimes the two overlapping), letting her know who needed what they'd likely be asking for, and who really _didn't._ And if sometimes it happened that her tonics worked and healed the people sick enough to need healing, well, that was just the Maker at work in His mysterious ways, wasn't it?

And still she didn't get involved. She stayed in the back of the wagon, mixing _potions_ and calling them _tonics, _watering some down with water, some with gin, and some with laudanum for a little more kick than the rest. And when people got caught in her partners' net of tantalizing promises too good to be true, she gave them what they needed, even if it wasn't exactly what they _wanted_. Then they unhitched the horses and made off for the next town, never leaving behind so many unsatisfied customers that they'd be unwelcome the next time they came around. She let people wonder if she was a charlatan, because things would be so much better for her if she _was_, and the money wasn't too bad, when there was money, like now. And when she went back to the farm at the end of a trip, she had enough coin for Mama to patch whatever needed patching and pay whoever needed paying before it all started over again.

All this aside, as Amelle "Miracle Mely" Hawke measured out dried elfroot on an old set of brass scales, it struck her just how damned _bored_ she was. She brushed the withered leaves into a mortar even older than the scales and leaned back, grimacing as the muscles in her shoulders reminded her how long she'd been hunched over. Her rear end likewise reminded her how long she'd been sitting on the hard wooden bench. With a breath, she sent a stream of cool healing mana to the aching muscles, rolling her shoulders and then twisting in a stretch.

Just then, one of the horses nickered softly—possibly Tango or Cedric, it didn't sound like Falcon—and her head jerked up with the noise as she closed her eyes, listening hard. Moving slowly, she reached out with her right hand until her fingers closed around smooth handle of the revolver lying at the end of the bench. She stood, taking slow, cautious steps around the cluttered wagon, lifting the gun and cocking it with a loud _click,_ just as a pair of broad hands appeared, and a short, broad body levered itself into the wagon.

Varric looked up, blinked once, then let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head and hauling himself further into the wagon. "Oh, please. You and I both know if you were going to kill anyone, Hawke, it wouldn't be with that."

Amelle uncocked the gun and lowered it. "Nobody questions the cause of death in a body filled with holes. You taught me that." Gunshots also brought people running, and when they found a dead man and a hysterical young woman with a smoking gun falling from trembling, nerveless fingers, no one tended to ask questions.

Isabela had taught her _that._

"True enough. Come on, we've got to see a man about a dog. Bring your bag."

Holstering the weapon, she grabbed the worn leather satchel and drab grey cloak hanging from a nearby peg, doused the lantern, and swung herself out of the wagon, following Varric. The wagon was safe enough where it was; her companions knew more than a thing or two about safeguarding valuables. "Where's 'Bela?" she asked, huddling down into her cloak; the night was surprisingly cold, the air dry. "Keeping both man and dog company?"

"You could say that."

It was late, and the small town was dark, the only lights and noise coming from the saloon, lanterns making the windows glow yellow as raucous laughter danced out into the cold night. She made out the tinny strains of a piano playing an old dwarven drinking song. Varric softly whistled along as they walked.

The houses got smaller and more depressing the further away from town they got, until they reached a cluster of tiny structures; they weren't quite shacks, but calling them anything else would have been far too generous.

"Miners," Varric supplied brusquely.

"It's a bit off the beaten path, even for you. How'd you find them?"

"Talked to some of the right people, and a few of the wrong ones. People'll talk about all sorts of things when they're two hands up and a few bottles in."

"Pity, he didn't stay that way for long," came a smoky voice that blended all too well with the shadows, even as the woman eased herself out of it. The faint moonlight made the gold at her throat glint, but little else.

"Good night for cards, then, Isabela?" Amelle asked.

Her grin was a smug one. "Is it my fault I find so many people who are so bad at holding on to their own money?"

"It's not your _fault_, Rivaini," Varric replied easily, "it's a damned gift is what it is."

"You say the sweetest things," said Isabela, easing further into the moonlight. She jerked her chin at the shack she'd been waiting by. "Go on in, kitten. You're expected."

Amelle approached the cabin. It wasn't often sickness came with a smell. The scent of rot, of infection, of something beyond mere illness, but that of _disease, _of a _thing_ that seemed to crawl and slither into every crevice and lurk like death itself, draining love, joy, and, worst of all, _hope_ from a room until nothing remained but fear, desperation, and maybe, just maybe, if the sick were lucky, defiance.

The tiny one-room shack stank of death, even before she opened the rickety plank door. A thin blond woman sat hunched on a stool pulled up to a bed barely wide enough to fit two. She looked up as Amelle entered, her narrow face and sunken bloodshot eyes almost skeletal, her thin lips pale and cracked. Her hair was pulled back into a too-tight bun, which only served to make her eyes look even more hollow.

"I'm… here to help," she told the woman.

"Don't know how anyone can help. They told me," she said, jerking her chin at the door, "they told me they knew someone what could, but…"

The woman stood, revealing a swollen bump beneath her clothes. Pregnant and living in anywhere near a lyrium mine was a bad idea. Pregnant and living right damned on top of one was the _worst_ idea. Amelle thought she knew what the problem was, until the woman stepped aside, revealing who lay on the bed.

The man was thin and pale, every bit as much as his wife, but his dark auburn hair, made darker by sweat, gave his skin a gray tint. A dusting of freckles stood out on his face, and though he was clearly full grown, the effect made him look absurdly young. The sweat slicking his hair poured off of him, soaking the thin shirt he wore, dampening the threadbare linens. He trembled with fever — the heat radiating off him was beyond imagining. Amelle could feel the warmth even before she brushed her fingers across his forehead.

This man wasn't just ill; he was dying.

"My husband," she said, her voice tearing on the word. "Broke his leg in the mines. Don't think they set it right. He started comin' down sick three nights ago."

"How long ago did he break his leg?"

"Six days now."

A poorly set leg was bad enough, but…

Amelle licked her lips, not wanting to ask the next question. "And how long has he been working in the lyrium mines?"

"Three months. His… uncle got him the job."

_Long enough to addle his brains, _she thought, barely remembering not to let her expression reflect her thoughts. Long enough to do real damage once he strayed too far from the mines for too long. She rubbed her fingers firmly between her eyebrows, looking more closely at the dying man.

_I don't know if I can save him._ The words were on the tip of her tongue, and nearly came out—nearly, until she saw the raw, naked _hope_ on the young wife's face. "How long have you been married?" she asked gently, sure she didn't want to know the answer.

The woman looked down, and her expression softened so that Amelle could see that beneath the grit and grime and worry and fear, she was quite pretty, or had been, once. "Six months now."

Damn.

And against her common sense and better judgment, _I don't know if I can save him_ turned into, "Well. Let's see what we can do then, all right?"

_Don't get involved, Mely,_ she could almost hear her father say.

_I'll thank you not to get involved either, Daddy,_ she thought, cracking her knuckles and taking a seat on the stool the woman had left.

#

The hard soles of her boots scraped softly across the wagon floor as Isabela helped her navigate the path to the bedrolls, and the last thing Amelle remembered before sliding into sleep and dreams, was Isabela's voice whispering oh, so sweetly in her ear, "I hope you didn't give away _all_ our money tonight, kitten. Or at least not my share."

Her dreams were filled with dark passages and faint whispers, twisted with the vaguest sensation she was meant to be looking for something, but she didn't know _what, _leaving her with the feeling that she'd forgotten something important, but had no idea what it was, except that it was _vital_ she find it—

And then Amelle rolled over, and a sliver of early morning sunlight pricked red through her closed eyelids, dragging her from slumber, leaving her with only the faintest impressions of the dream, crushed under bone-deep weariness from the last night's expenditure of magic. The exercise wasn't entirely an altruistic good deed, but rather a sort of… enlightened self interest.

The best, most useful aspect to Varric and Isabela taking Amelle out in the middle of the night to heal a man whose bone had been set badly, an act that involved both purging his body of infection _and_ lyrium sickness, then re-setting the bone and giving it all a little _push_ of magic just to start the bone knitting back together again, was not that the whole affair left her so damned magic-drained that she had to be half-carried back to the wagon. It was that she'd pass any test or trial any mage-hunter set her to.

The most convincing way to hide was in plain sight.

So Amelle's mana levels would hover between "negligible" and "rock bottom" while they peddled their wares, and her disguise would remain intact. It had worked well so far, simply another element added to the whole of her disguise.

The problem was the whole affair left her exhausted. She lay in her bedroll trying to find the wherewithal to heave her body to her feet, but none was coming. It had been too long since she'd slept in a proper bed, under a proper roof, and a sudden, lancing bolt of homesickness stabbed through her breast. Soon. She'd be going home soon. Soon she'd get her narrow little bed, the warm feather mattress sinking with her weight. Soon she'd inhale and breathe in more than dust and the stink of whiskey, urine, and unwashed everything that seemed to permeate every larger town they stopped in. She longed for the scent of sweet hay, her mother's bread, the tiny flower garden, the clean scent of the breeze coming in off the fields.

For all she was _good_ at it, Amelle wasn't made for a life like this. She liked having roots.

Slowly she pushed herself up. It was dim inside the wagon, but morning was encroaching — her eyes went back to the worn piece of canvas and the light that had woken her up already. She sat up slowly, grimacing; her head pounded with a merciless tattoo and nothing short of straight whiskey or Varric's coffee would beat it back.

At the moment, the former dumped into the latter sounded like the best idea.

Moving stiffly, she crawled from her bedroll and crept out of the wagon. Isabela still slept soundly inside, but Varric's bedroll was already neatly stowed away. The dwarf sat by a crackling fire, scribbling in a leatherbound book; Amelle marveled a moment the way Varric's hand moved so quickly across the page, as if he could barely keep up with the words forming in his mind.

"Coffee's ready," he said, never looking up from the page. Amelle rummaged in one of the packs until she found a battered tin cup into which she poured a generous helping of steaming dark liquid, adding a similarly generous helping of sugar—Amelle didn't have all that many vices, but sugar was one thing she insisted on; Varric's coffee was only palatable as long as it was as sweet as it was thick. She settled down next to him as he wrote, and a few more moments passed in silence before the pen stopped and Varric, evidently satisfied, closed the book with a nod.

"So what the hell was that last night, Hawke?" he asked, bracing his arms behind him and sending her a speculative look. "Should be enough you give folks your mana free of charge. You're giving away money, too?"

She wrinkled her nose. "It was just a little bit—Maker, leave it to Isabela to make it sound like I've given away the Queen of Antiva's damn fortune." Stirring the coffee with a bent spoon, Amelle explained, "There's a cleansing tonic she needed to keep the infection at bay—it's not that common a potion, so I didn't have any with me. You know as well as I lyrium does a job on the poor bastards—our man last night was damn near impossible to heal—and the wife's going to need more help than I could give her. I left her the recipe and a little money for the supplies." She took a drink from the cup and grimaced. "It was hardly our whole savings."

"Speaking of our savings," Varric said, refilling his own mug and taking a drink with nary a grimace, "it looks to me like we could probably head back Lothering way after today's haul." He shrugged. "Good chance of it, anyway." At her immediate and obvious smile, he chuckled. "Yeah, thought you might feel that way. What's the state of our stock?"

"More than enough. I was topping off our stores last night when you turned up and dragged me off."

"You mean to say," a voice came from the dark confines of the wagon, "kitten and her bleeding heart _didn't_ give it all away last night?"

"Just your share, 'Bela," Amelle tossed back, grinning.

The woman in question climbed out of the wagon, her face no less welcoming than a stormcloud. "Do not joke with me before I've had my coffee, kitten," she announced, pouring herself a cup, to which she then added several generous slugs of whiskey before taking a long drink. "And _never_ joke about my share of the money."

#

Mining towns. He'd ridden through nothing but mining towns for two days now, with more ahead of him.

Fenris grimaced, hands tightening on his reins. Had it not already been far too long since Agrippa had been watered, he'd have been more than content to pass through without stopping. But he hadn't stopped at any of the last three settlements he passed; to forego rest any longer would have been both foolish and dangerous. He hadn't lived this long by being _foolish. _Better to stop now, let his mare cool down and rest for a time than risk her throwing a shoe or worse. A short rest was better than no rest at all for the animal, even if any pause in the journey would be far from restful for Fenris.

All the same, he was thoroughly tired of mining towns. Few of them were large enough to suit his needs, and too many of them attracted the very people he'd spent too long trying to avoid. Ostagar was larger than most, he supposed, but not large enough that he could be lost in it. It would do for a brief respite—one night, but no more than that.

Within an hour, he had a room in a shabby-but-clean hotel, and Agrippa was set up in a stall with dry hay, fresh feed, and clean water. He rubbed down the mare, checking the hooves for stones and wear when he noticed a long thin gash along her right rear fetlock; she snorted her displeasure when he began prodding at the shallow wound. Ointment, then, which he'd been out of since Gwaren, and only luck and care had kept him from needing any until now. He sighed; better to purchase his own than presume to use anything the hotel stables kept on hand. It was with this thought in mind that Fenris made his way down the winding dirt road that rather grandly called itself "Main Street," eyes sharp for a general store.

What caught his eye first—or his _ear,_ rather—wasn't a shop at all, not in the strictest sense.

"Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!" a woman's clear, strong voice called out, a sharp, cold breeze carrying it well up the road. "No need to push, no need to crowd, plenty of room for everyone! Step right up and behold the miraculous Miracle Mely Hawke's Miracle Tonics!"

A wagon backed up to a makeshift platform upon which stood a woman in a modestly-cut gown the color of claret. A vividly painted sign hung outside the wagon, and flanking her on either side of the platform were crates upon crates of bottles and jars.

A small crowd had already gathered, and as Fenris drew nearer, the woman in red held a bottle aloft as she smiled brightly and addressed both the people who'd already drawn near, and those—like him—who hovered on the edges, not quite ready to commit to joining any sort of audience.

"I've got ointments," she called out, a grin never entirely leaving her face, "I've got liniments—by the Maker, I've got every _ment_ you could possibly want!"

"Have you got peppermints?" a voice in the crowd yelled out. A stocky blond dwarf with a crossbow slung over his shoulder rocked onto his heels and smirked up at her.

"Every mint but that, good sir!" she replied with a laugh. Arms sweeping wide, she walked from one end of the platform to another, attention solidly on the crowd before her. "Why, I've got tonics to tame your troubles, elixirs to ease your aches, and a salve for every sorrow. A promise, a hope, and a cure in every bottle! Hand-crafted and approved by yours truly, Miracle Mely Hawke, at your service." She dipped into a low curtsy, the red skirt swinging out and revealing a flutter of white petticoats beneath.

Straightening, she spun on the ball of her foot to walk to the other end of the platform, gesturing grandly. "These tonics will rejuvenate, activate, facilitate and alleviate! My ointments will bust bunions and halt headache." Hawke's expression went suddenly sly as she sent a broad wink down to the growing crowd. "Why, my Empress Elixir was crafted and brewed for Celine herself to snag every last royal lover to cross Orlais' borders."

A dark woman, her long hair held back by a blue scarf looked unconvinced. "But does it _work?_"

Hawke's expression went to one of shock, tempered with amusement and affront. "Does it _work_, she asks! My good woman, my Empress Elixir will render you _captivating_! Tantalizing! Enticing! And alluring!"

The woman, who Fenris doubted had any practical _need_ for any sort of "love potion," rolled her eyes and tossed her head, unimpressed. "Hmph."

"Don't believe me, my dear?" the woman asked playfully. She plucked a small bottle from a straw-filled crate. The liquid inside glinted a deep jewel-toned purple as she waggled it at the other woman before gently tossing it to her. "First bottle, free of charge."

He watched, never venturing closer than the furthest outer edges of the crowd. He'd seen other such displays before, in towns larger than Ostagar; the wares being peddled were usually hardly any better than mineral oil and camphor—a single bottle "cure-all" that wasn't fit to oil a saddle.

"And you, sir!" Hawke's voice rang out again. "At the back with the glare black enough to match your hat _and_ your coat. What is it you're looking for?"

He realized, belatedly, she was addressing _him._

"I'm sure you have nothing I require," he replied coolly, lifting his gaze defiantly to meet her laughing eyes.

"You sound so _certain_," she replied lightly. "There's _nothing_ in my humble wares you might find use for?" Her grin widened. "Try me."

Fenris suddenly became aware of the eyes on him as prickling heat crept up the back of his neck. "You have nothing I can use," he told her.

"Hmm." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "And if I disagree?"

"You may disagree all you like," he retorted. "It hardly changes the material fact that you have nothing I need or want."

Hawke's expression was one of genuine amusement—seemed so, at least. "Oh, now you've cut me to the quick, good sir. Nothing you need? Well, perhaps. But nothing you _want?_ Well, that's just insulting." Before he could reply, she swept to the edge of the platform nearest him, and crouched down. "What say we make it interesting, hmm? How about I _guess_?"

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'll guess," she said again. "I'll guess at your aches and ailments, and if I am at any point _correct…_"

"_If_ you are correct—something I most firmly doubt—then… yes," he conceded, "I will make use of your… wares."

She straightened up, a beaming smile lighting her face, and clapped her hands once. "Excellent!" With that, and with the help of several nearby onlookers, she hopped down from the platform. The crowd was only too happy to part for her, and she was by his side in seconds. Strangely, Hawke had seemed taller, almost larger than life standing upon that makeshift stage that Fenris was surprised to discover she was shorter than he by inches.

At this distance, too, he saw the dress was indeed well made, but worn in spots, and expertly patched, embellished with buttons here, a swath of lace or a velvet frill there to hide the wear. Her features were well-molded, her nose long and straight, her chin a narrow point beneath her heart-shaped face; her short brown hair—easily as short as any man's and swept to the side—seemed to suit her. There was paint upon her cheeks, but beneath she was parchment pale. The only pieces of her that did not change with distance were Hawke's eyes—a laughing, dancing green—and her smile, which seemed now to widen at his discomfiture, though there was nothing malicious about it. On the contrary, she appeared overjoyed that he was playing along.

"How many guesses do you intend to take?" he asked as she circled, studying him, laughing eyes suddenly serious, the tip of one finger tapping pensively against her lips.

"Three, I think, would be sporting. Don't you agree?"

"Three guesses?"

She gave a sly wink, her smile turning crooked, as if they were conspirators. "Unless you want to give me more."

"Three is more than sufficient," he said stiffly.

"Spoilsport," she murmured, just under her breath.

"You cannot expect me to make it easy for you to part me from my coin," he replied, just as quietly.

She let out a soft _hmm. _"And _you_ can't expect that any _part_ of this is actually _easy_." After circling him three, perhaps four times, she faced him, a pensive look still etched on her features. "Do you suffer from saddle sores, my good man?"

She'd noted the dust upon his legs and boots. Fair enough. Still, Fenris shook his head. "I do not."

"Pity," the dark-haired woman drawled, "I'd rub him dow—"

_"Thank you_,_" _the woman said, her tone edging into warning. "That will do, miss. It's hardly fair for me to get help from bystanders." She leaned in closer, looking hard at his face and Fenris fought the urge to lean back as she scrutinized him. "Fatigue?" she murmured, half to herself. "Oh, no, that's too easy." Then she looked up and met his eyes, saying quietly, "Though I suspect it still applies."

"If that is your second guess, I have no need for a restorative. It is nothing a full night's sleep won't fix."

She took a step back then, looking him over one more time—_slowly—_from head to heel. Indeed, Fenris felt as if Hawke's gaze were boring _through_ him, taking in every inch, every smear of dust, every streak of sweat. "Nug Oil Liniment," she announced suddenly. "Best poultice you'll find this side of the Frostback Mountains, made with frostrock from those very hills. Soothes sore muscles and heals minor cuts and scrapes."

He shook his head. "I haven't any—"

"Not for you," she interrupted gently, taking his hand and indicating the faint streak of blood across his knuckles and the bits of hay and horsehair clinging to his clothes. "For your four-legged friend."

He brushed some hay from his sleeve and frowned at her, nodding at the blood. "And you're so certain that's from a horse?"

She shrugged slender shoulders. "Well, I had a suspicion, certainly. And I suppose that could just as easily have come from a dog, or a cat," she countered, dimpling at him. "But it was _you_ who told me it's a horse."

With a wink, Hawke bobbed another curtsy again and strode again to the wooden platform, climbing back upon it. This time he followed her, watching as she rummaged around in one of the crates a moment before pulling a jar free from the straw and tossing it down to him. The contents were thick, viscous, and blindingly white with a pale blue sheen and a chill Fenris felt through the glass.

"You're certain this will work," he said, turning the jar over in his hands and looking up at her from beneath the brim of his hat.

"As certain as I am you'll find me and tell me if it doesn't," she replied lightly.

After some haggling, which Hawke managed with the same degree of good humor she'd started out with, the ointment cost just a little less than what he would have paid at a general store, and far less than he might have been able to get off a farrier. The question, of course, was whether it would work as advertised, or whether he'd wasted coin he could ill afford to waste—and whether he'd be able to _find_ her afterward if it turned out not to work. Fenris paid her his coin and went on his way, wasting no time heading back to the hotel's stables as the gathered crowd exploded behind him, asking about cures for anything from creaky joints to toothache to hair loss and whether or not her Empress Elixir might correct one's… _vitality. _Hawke's laugh—warm, not cruel, he noticed—carried on the wind before she lowered her voice and answered this last question in an undertone.

By the time Fenris returned to the stables, he could still hear enough of the commotion to know there _was_ a commotion going on in town. Agrippa lifted her head from the feed bucket long enough to acknowledge him as he let himself into the stall, then closed her eyes and resumed chewing noisily.

"Well," he murmured, running one hand along her dappled grey flank, "shall we discover whether your master is a fool?"

Agrippa continued chewing, which Fenris accepted as an affirmative reply. Crouching down and twisting open the jar, he dipped two fingers into the concoction, startled suddenly at how _cold_ it was. But there, beneath the chill, there was a strange, tingling sort of warmth. Frowning a little, he rubbed the ointment between his thumb and middle finger—it was thick and smooth, smelling rather powerfully of new-fallen snow, something cold and clean and sharp, and nothing at all of camphor. He smoothed it along the narrow cut, noting that the mare snorted her surprise, jerking a little at the sudden chill when he applied the ointment, but beyond that she seemed unbothered by the application, or at least more interested in the contents of her bucket than anything else.

With a last look at the thick ointment smeared upon Agrippa's leg, Fenris left his mare in the stall. His stomach was reminding him it had been some time since _he'd_ had a proper meal himself, and he had no desire to linger in Ostagar any longer than absolutely necessary. He would take time to eat and time to rest and examine his maps, determining the best, safest route to Amaranthine, and provided Agrippa's wound was healed, he would be underway again at first light.

#

"A good haul," Varric announced, closing the coffer. "And we're sold out." He leaned back and stretched his arms high above his head, then rotated his shoulders until they cracked. "Good call, singling out the broody elf."

Amelle shrugged as she carefully folded the red gown, tucking it away in a trunk. She'd traded it for a far more comfortable blue calico dress and a soft, warm shawl. "He looked like he'd be a hard sell."

Isabela's smirk was instant. "Oh, I just _bet_ he's—"

Amelle didn't bother letting her finish, interjecting, "And if you can win over the hardest sell in the room…"

"You can win over the room," Varric nodded.

And if the surliest customer also happened to be visually pleasing, well, Amelle could hardly be faulted for noticing him, could she? It wasn't as if he'd been scowling _subtly_ at her, in any case. Then she'd met the glare burning out at her from beneath the brim of his dark hat and she'd known engaging him would be a gamble, but one _entirely worth it._

"What do you suppose his story was?" Isabela mused aloud. Then, with a glance at Varric, she said, "Go on, fill in the blanks. You know you're dying to."

The dwarf chuckled. "A character like that? No idea. Markings were a little odd. Maybe he's a Dalish pariah, cast out of the clan and forced to walk the world alone and bitter. Or clan royalty, wrongly accused of a crime he did not commit, and is on the hunt for justice to clear his name."

Amelle sat upon the trunk. "I didn't know the Dalish had clan royalty."

Varric snorted his amusement and shook his head. "Rivaini didn't ask for facts, Hawke. And the best stories don't deal too heavily in truths anyway. But whatever his story, we've got the broody elf to thank for the best haul we've had since Denerim. I can safely assume you made sure he'd be a satisfied customer?"

"Oh, the _most_ satisfied," replied Amelle with a knowing grin. "I gave our scowly friend the good stuff."

"Good," he replied with a nod. "So what do you say, you two? Grab some eats, find a card game, and see what kind of trouble we can get into before heading home in the morning?"

"You go on ahead," Amelle replied ruefully, flicking her fingers; a blue flame licked to life in her palm. "Probably better for all if I keep a low profile tonight."

Varric and Isabela exchanged a look. Before Amelle could ask, Varric asked, "Is it me, or are you recovering faster these days?"

"I don't think it's your imagination," she said with a sigh, the flame winking out. "I've… got an idea for something that might help keep my mana levels low, but it's going to have to wait until we get back to Lothering. I haven't got half the supplies I'd need."

"You're going to try the magebane, aren't you?" Isabela asked, her expression darkening as she folded her arms over her chest. "I've said it once already: it's a bad idea, kitten."

"In a small enough dose," argued Amelle, "there's no reason why it shouldn't suppress my mana levels just enough to keep me undetectable."

"I _do _know a thing or two about a good poison, sweet thing. The last thing you want is to tangle with something that nasty."

It was a topic they'd visited and revisited before, and Amelle knew perfectly well that Isabela had a point; playing around with toxins was tricky business, and definitely not something she relished. On the other hand, Amelle also knew her mana was replenishing itself quicker and quicker these days. And if that meant—as she thought it did—her abilities were getting stronger, then Amelle was going to need a stronger means of suppressing herself.

"Well," she said brightly, "you've got as long as it takes until Lothering to talk me out of it."


	2. Chapter 2

The food had been good and cards even better, if the hour Varric and Isabela had returned to camp was any indication. As such, it was a few hours _past_ first light and well into the morning when they were finally underway to Lothering. The road between Ostagar and Lothering was a good one, and travel between the two tended to take between two and three days, depending on how heavy their load was, and depending on whether or not they had to avoid anything—or any_one_—en route. Occasionally it took more.

The fist leg of the journey was off to a good start, despite their late beginning. The day was cool, with a pleasant breeze that carried with it the soft chirping tweets of birdsong. Isabela sat up front beside Varric, while Amelle rode alongside Falcon. No matter how smooth the road, it was a rough ride in the back of the wagon, and one Amelle was only inclined to take when she was too mana-drained to stay upright in a saddle. The warm sun and wind ruffling her hair paired with the horse's smooth, even gait was enough to make her eyes grow heavy. Her jaw cracked amidst a wide yawn when Varric reined the horses to a stop.

"You hear that?" he asked.

Amelle cocked her head; she hadn't heard anything, but that accounted for very little. Her mind had been otherwise occupied with sweet breezes, Falcon's measured steps, and thoughts of home lying just a little further down the road. But now that they were still, nothing but the wind blowing around them, the sound of gunfire was all too clear.

"Sounds like someone's in the middle of a disagreement up ahead," he observed, darkly.

"And not a friendly disagreement," murmured Amelle.

"Going around would put too much time on the trip," Varric said. "Quicker if we just wait for them to run out of bullets."

"Kitten and I will go check it out," announced Isabela, hopping down from the wagon; Amelle followed suit, but just as her feet hit the ground, a horse's scream tore through the air, sending a ripple of anxiety through the other animals. Falcon tossed his head and snorted, taking a few sudden, prancing steps to the side, pulling sharply on the reins she held. Amelle soothed him, but as soon as she was able, tethered the animal before freeing her staff from where it was secured against his side, and setting off with Isabela at a jog. There were ways around the main road, but not many, and Varric was entirely right— a new route would've added far too much time to the trip.

Together they crunched lightly through underbrush before reaching the tree line. Their vantage point overlooked the gully through which the main road ran. The source of the screams was evident at once: a man was trapped, pinned beneath his horse, which had clearly been injured. He had reasonable cover behind a formation of rocks, but not nearly good enough. Shots seemed to be aimed at him from nearly every direction.

"Mmm, if we wait for him to run out of bullets," whispered Isabela in an undertone, "I doubt I'll be a very long wait." She snorted with disgust. "I hate waiting for a slaughter to end. At least there's _art_ to a duel. There's more to it than pure brawn and the winner being whoever's got the most bullets."

"You hate an unfair fight unless it's unfair to your benefit," Amelle pointed out easily, eyes scanning the gully.

"Well, obviously. Doesn't everybody? It's different when _we've _got the brawn." She let out a quiet _hmm._ "Looks like there's… about six of them."

"They don't… look like templars," Amelle murmured, taking in the dark-clad gunmen.

"No, I don't think so," returned Isabela. "Or, at least, if they are, I can't smell their self-righteousness on the breeze."

"Just wait for the wind to change," came Varric's voice from behind them.

Amelle looked over her shoulder. "We were coming _back_, you know."

Varric just shook his head and peered through the trees. "Six of 'em, you said?" At Isabela's affirmative, Varric nodded to himself. "Looks like it was a planned ambush. Do you figure getting him under the horse was luck or skill?"

"Luck for who, exactly?" Amelle retorted, frowning at the pinned man. He seemed to be doing as well as could be expected, all things considered, but Amelle didn't expect that to last for very much longer.

Varric sent her a sidelong glance. "Luck for them. Bad luck for their target."

Then, one of the men stood up from behind the rock formation that had been his cover, bellowing across the gully, "It's all the same to us, slave! Half-dead's good as alive, far as your reward goes!"

From below, a deep voice growled what Amelle could only surmise was a swear, though it was a language she'd never heard before.

Isabela's expression darkened. "Tevinters," she spat. "_Slavers._"

"All right, so maybe we _won't_ be waiting for the gunfire to stop," Varric said, pulling Bianca from his back and assessing the ambush already well in progress. "Looks like they've got him pinned. In more ways than one."

"I count six," Isabela said. "Various points around."

Amelle nodded at the air rippling by the gunman that had called out to the other man; red light swirled into existence around his fingertips. "At least one's a mage—blood mage, from the looks of things—and my guess is there are probably at least two. One handling offensive spells, the other defensive and healing."

"I think we can take 'em," Varric said, sharp eyes assessing every possible spot the gunmen could have hidden themselves.

"Can you get to the other side of the gully?" Amelle asked. Isabela's grin was a more than sufficient answer to that particular question. "Good. I'll stay on this side and see if I can provide a little backup—maybe some cover. Stuck like that, he's a sitting duck out there."

"And it's _still_ quicker than finding a different route around," Varric said, checking Bianca's trigger mechanism.

Sliding two deadly-sharp daggers from where they normally rested sheathed against her back, Isabela tossed them both an grin. "More fun, too," she said before fairly disappearing into the shadowy copse of trees.

"She's got an odd idea of fun," Amelle said to Varric's retreating back.

"You expect anything less from Rivaini?" he said before joining Isabela in the shadows.

Amelle had to admit, as she too stepped into the shadowy brush and crept closer to the gunfight, she did not.

As she hefted her stave, it awoke in her hands, as if sensing Amelle's need for it just then. Her staff was a formidable weapon, far more effective in her hands than any revolver or rifle, and though Amelle _could_ shoot, her aim was far superior when funneled down the bladed staff. That said, it didn't get frequent use on the road, though it came with them every trip because it was far better not to need the thing than to be caught unprepared. Now it positively _hummed_ with energy. She could hardly blame it; Amelle felt much the same way.

The horse screamed again and she took a breath, pushing a low-level healing spell its way. Not nearly enough to undo whatever damage had been done, but enough to keep it comfortable for a time. The less it thrashed, the less damage it did to itself and to the man pinned beneath it. And then, crouching down and pushing aside a branch heavy with pine needles, Amelle peered down across the gully. From here she saw three of the ambushers—one of them, as she'd thought, a blood mage.

No one had sensed her yet, but she knew it was just a matter of time before one of the other magic-wielders picked up the timbre of her power mingling with theirs. While the element of surprise was on her side, she adjusted her grip on the staff, breathing deeply and reaching deeper and deeper into herself, to that place where she was tethered to the Fade, the place where her energy pulsed and sparked and thrummed. She pulled at it, coaxing it upward, letting it expand and thrive beneath her skin, twisting and shaping her mana into a specific spell, and as she exhaled, it left her in a rush, charging through the staff and soaring forward.

The blood mage's mana guttered out suddenly as Amelle's disruption spell engulfed him, and the confusion on his face was almost comical, for all it was short-lived. There was a sudden spray of blood as a crossbow bolt shot out through his throat, the force of the blow from behind sending the now-dead man's head jerking sharply back before he toppled forward, Varric's bolt still in his neck.

Confidence wavered slightly under the surprise attack. Men shouted and gestured—nearly all of them revealing their hiding spots in the process—and several abandoned their posts to find their quarry's assistance.

Again she heard her father's voice. _Don't get involved, Mely._

"Oh, it's too late for that, Daddy," she murmured under her breath. "Don't think I can get more involved than this." With that, Amelle hoisted her staff aloft and reached down once more, where fire and ice and lightning all twined about one another, sparks and frost bound together with bright white light. She breathed in deeply, letting her mana swim and jump through her veins, and it had been so long since she'd used anything _but_ healing energy, the crackling elemental and spirit magics sang beneath her skin even as they made the fine hairs on her neck stand on end.

Skin tingling with heat—_a fireball to start, I think_— magic _rushed_ down her arm and a tiny tornado of flame licked and swirled, growing and growing until a globe of fire hovered in Amelle's palm. She flung it forward, catching another gunman, one who'd so unwisely abandoned his hiding place. Amid his screams, the second mage, still well hidden, turned his attention away from offensive attacks, and toward healing his injured fellow. Amelle kept her own attacks similarly focused, dispelling the defensive mage's spells as she sent chain after chain of blinding lightning at the gunman, until he lay sprawled on the ground, smoke rising from his charred clothes, his body twitching in death throes.

If the ambushers were harboring any doubts regarding a potential counterattack, those doubts were promptly laid to rest.

Working from a distance, Amelle called upon lightning and ice—and more fire—distracting the gunmen, turning their attention away from the man and his horse. Then, crouching down to keep them both in her line of sight, She flung a hand forward and sent a barrier shimmering into place around the horse, and the man trapped beneath it; she couldn't see very much of the man, but the animal at least had stopped its wild thrashing.

The odds were hardly evened, even with their interference. _Five, now, against…_ Amelle crept around and craned her neck; the animal had stopped thrashing, but the man was unmoving beneath it. She swore. _Five against three, then_, she thought, breathing in to send a another rush of healing energy to the man, provided, of course, he wasn't already dead. But as she inhaled and called on her magic, the soft snap of a branch behind her—loud enough to Amelle's ears to be a gunshot itself—made her turn, and then _throw_ her body to the side when she saw the dark figure holding a pair of glinting daggers aloft. The ground was hard and rocky, and the impact knocked the breath from her lungs, but it was infinitely better than a blade or two in her back. She scrambled to her feet, turning her staff around her hands as her assailant circled, face nearly completely lost in shadow beneath the brim of his—no, _her_— hat.

"You're interfering with the recovery of missing property," the woman hissed, circling Amelle. For her part, Amelle, kept the bladed end of her staff up, turning as the other woman circled.

"Missing property?" Amelle wheezed, still trying to coax a full breath into her lungs. "You know, sometimes I lose socks in the laundry. Most of the time I just figure they _want_ to be lost. _I_ think the same principle should apply here."

"That slave's more valuable than a _sock_," the woman growled, rushing forward.

Amelle lifted the bladed end of her staff in time for it to clash sharply against the daggers, the force of the blow shuddering down her arms. "And yet still doesn't appear to want to be found."

Baring her teeth in a snarl, the rogue feinted forward, but as Amelle lifted her staff in defense she darted to the side. There was barely enough time to pivot, dirt and twigs crunching and grinding beneath her feet as she moved, barely blocking the woman's blades again. She was moving far too fast for Amelle to fight like this, that much was certain, and almost too fast for Amelle to focus a spell. And perhaps that was the whole point. She kept moving, darting and weaving, nimble enough to use the trees around them for cover and distraction, and agile enough that any of Amelle's spells hit just a fraction of a second too late. Bolts of ice shot up from the ground, sending dirt and rocks flying, but the woman was already on her other side.

Grinning. Tiring her out and, Amelle realized with a sick wave of dread, keeping her out of breath.

Elemental magic was the quickest for her to summon, beyond defensive, healing magic, which right now did her no good at all. Fire was out of the question; the whole forest this side of the gully would've gone up in flames, and ice was proving too slow, too blocky.

The key was to slow her down and avoid being used as a pincushion in the process.

This time it was Amelle who moved first, sprinting deeper into the wooded area—she knew too well that slavers didn't have a reputation for leaving survivors behind, so there was no question of the woman following her. As Amelle ran, the forest blurring green-grey around her, she breathed deep, pulling her mana up and up until it sang beneath her skin, cold, cold down to the marrow in her bones, almost colder than she could stand; she twisted and shaped it—impossibly, indescribably _cold_—then _pushed_ it out behind her, hoping, _praying_ the spell hit its mark.

Skidding to a stop and turning, Amelle saw the ice and frost spread out behind her, coating grass and saplings and wildflowers in shimmering crystal, but there was no sign of her pursuer.

The blade that plunged into her back, however, _felt_ as if it too were coated in frost. Gasping—and it was such a sick, wet sound she was sure the dagger had pierced a lung—Amelle landed hard on her knees, frost melting through her trousers, cold and wet against her skin. The pain burned despite the cold, despite the frost and Amelle twisted her body, swinging the staff around even as she took the half breath still in her lungs and pushed every ounce of mana she had simmering in her body towards the wound. Her assailant stood above her, frost clinging to her clothes, wreathed in her hair, but the smile at her lips was one of cruel victory. One blade, Amelle saw, had red blood smeared and beaded upon it.

"Not quick enough," the woman said, stepping down hard upon the hand that held Amelle's staff. The bones ground together painfully and Amelle sucked a rattling breath into lungs straining to repair themselves. The assassin dropped to one knee and twisted a hand in Amelle's hair, yanking her head back and baring her throat.

"As if it weren't bad enough to be a mage defending a _slave,_ you can hardly defend _yourself._ You're a blight upon your kind, mage." The blade rested against her throat. "Let your Maker know I did you a _favor._"

"I've got a better idea," wheezed Amelle, closing her eyes and breathing deep. It still ached to inhale, and she was certain her body was all but covered in bumps and bruises, but the wet rattle in her lungs was absent and with that breath mana grew bright in her veins. Amelle reached up where the dagger lay against her skin, brushing her fingers upon the metal blade. "Tell Him yourself."

As she exhaled, tiny threads of lightning jumped from her fingertips to the shining metal blade.

The moment those jagged lines of light touched the dagger, they wrapped around the blade, growing brighter, _stronger_, traveling up the would-be assassin's arm even as the force of the shock sent her reeling backwards, tumbling against a thick tree stump. The woman struggled to keep her footing as she gasped for breath. Wearily, Amelle pushed to her feet, watching as the woman's body finally fell to the ground, jerking and spasming as the lightning arced through her. Even once the spell dissipated, the woman's body twitched, her breaths quick and shallow.

She was still alive, though barely and not for much longer.

Pushing wearily to her feet, Amelle took up the staff and made her way to her assailant's side. "This blight upon her kind," she panted, "has decided to show you a little mercy." Without waiting for an reply, Amelle screwed her eyes shut and plunged the bladed end of her staff downward. When she opened them again, the blade was sunk deep into the ground, through the would-be assassin's chest. There was no life in the woman's body.

"More than you would've shown me, I think," Amelle murmured, shaking her head and pulling her staff free before heading back toward the sounds of gunfire. Every step sent little shockwaves of pain through her body, though the worst of it radiated outward from the dagger's entry point. Amelle had healed the wound enough that she wouldn't be drowning in her own blood anytime soon, but a full and proper healing took time she didn't have and mana that needed replenishing.

When Amelle came to a break in the trees, it was in time to see Isabela and Varric take down the final gunman together; she coaxed the slaver out of cover, feinting and darting, and miraculously avoiding getting shot while the slaver slowly ran out of bullets. When that finally happened, he drew a long, curved blade from a sheath and charged forward, blade raised. A crossbow bolt flew out of nowhere, landing solidly in the man's eye, throwing him back against the rock formation he'd been using as cover moments before.

All was—finally—quiet.

Amelle came out through the break in the trees and carefully skidded down the hill to the road.

"You look like death warmed over, Hawke," Varric said, shouldering Bianca and limping toward her.

"You should see the other guy. And you don't look so hot yourself."

Varric grimaced down at the wound. "Bright side is the road's clear." He frowned, nodding at where man and horse still lay. "The bullets quit coming from that corner a little while ago. Don't know if he just passed out or… if it's something a little more permanent."

Amelle sighed and nodded, turning her steps to the grey horse with its dappled hide and quiet, still rider. The man's head was turned away from her, his pale hair matted with sweat and dirt. As she walked around to his other side, she stopped short and sucked in a sudden breath—it _hurt_, and she winced, but didn't take her eyes off the man at her feet. It was the man they'd encountered in town the other day. The hard sell. The one Varric had called Broody. Without saying a word, she crouched down and pressed two fingers against his neck; a pulse beat, but it was faint and irregular.

"Well, _shit_," Isabela said, coming up behind her.

"He's alive," Amelle said quietly. "Though possibly not for much longer. Damn it." She had _some_ lyrium potion in the wagon, but not much and—

"Found a few bottles of this on the bodies," Varric said, pressing a bottle into her hand. "Figured they weren't going to be using it."

"You're a _lifesaver_," she replied, tugging the cork free and downing the lyrium in several long swallows. For as pretty as the shimmering blue liquid was, lyrium potion tasted foul, like bitter almonds and licorice, a bite that tightened in the back of her throat at the same time that it made every breath Amelle inhaled rush cold and crisp into her lungs. Her connection to the Fade once again grew bright and sharp with light and energy. As she breathed in, mana rushed to the surface, ready to be set to work.

The first order of business was the horse. It had been shot and its front right leg was broken—a clean break, though, just below the knee. It lay on its side, nostrils flaring with each deep breath, watching Amelle with a wary glare that showed the whites of its eye.

Animals responded to magic in different ways—some of them, like Falcon seemed not to be bothered by it one way or another. Others, however, were far more sensitive, and made no secret of their dislike, and Amelle had a sinking feeling this horse was going to be more like the latter than the former. She crept forward, speaking in low, soft tones, until she was close enough to kneel where horse and rider were joined, pressing her hands against the animal's body. It jerked beneath her touch and she stroked its long neck slowly as she closed her eyes and reached down and _past_ her connection to the Fade, deeper and deeper still, until a trickle of energy different than the rest bubbled forth, slowly at first, and then faster, growing and growing with a hot-cold pulse until Amelle knew she was aglow with blue-white light.

Phantom hands only she could feel rested over hers, and a voice only she could hear whispered in her ears, mimicking the soft, soothing sounds she made at the horse. Though she knew Fade spirits were bloodless, every time she reached out to summon this energy, it coursed through her like a pulse. Wave after wave of healing energy pushed forward and out in waves until she felt the horse's bone knitting together again, the bullet wound closing, slowly pushing the lead slug up and up and up and finally _out_. And, like a series of crashing waves, the energy of the Fade continued pushing and pushing, further and further, until Amelle became aware that she was breathing more easily, until she knew instinctively that Varric's wound had healed.

She was distantly aware of the horse moving, scrambling to its feet, and perhaps she ought to have been concerned with getting trampled, but that was a concern that felt too distant to matter just then. With a touch as light as any feather, the spirit's hands guided hers until they rested upon the dying man. She felt rather than saw every one of his injuries, and her stomach churned with the knowledge of the pain he'd undergone. One leg had been broken in several different places when the horse fell upon him and the other leg twisted beneath his body—_he tried dismounting as the horse fell_, she realized—with damage done to both the hip and knee. He'd been shot in the shoulder; the bullet had broken his left collarbone and was still lodged inside him. Another bullet had torn through his right arm, ruining muscle. He had lost blood—it was pooled around them and soaking into her pants.

For a moment, for a sudden, fleeting fraction of a moment, she was certain she could not heal him. But the spirit's touch sunk _into_ her hands and in an instant those fears were groundless. Cold fire lit her fingertips, pushing and pulling and _shifting_, knitting bone and mending damage until every breath burned with exertion, as if she'd been running for miles.

Then it was over. The light flared off, leaving her hands stiff and numb, her lungs aching, her clothes drenched with sweat.

She looked up at Varric, blinking slowly. "He'll live," she said, taking care not to slur her words too much. "How's your leg?"

"Good as new, Hawke," he said, though his image appeared to waver strangely as he said it.

"Oh. Good," she said faintly, just before sliding bonelessly to one side. She tried to catch herself, but mostly succeeded in landing hard on one elbow. Blinking slowly, Amelle realized it wasn't just Varric that was wavering all over the place. _Everything_ was.

Using her teeth, Isabela pulled the cork from another bottle of lyrium potion and spat it aside before putting the bottle to Amelle's lips.

"Bottom's up, kitten."

With clumsy fingers, Amelle grasped the bottle, swallowing greedily. It tasted as bad as ever, but her head eventually cleared and mana that had been so close to depleted slowly began to swirl again beneath her skin.

"I think I might be getting a little _too_ used to running myself dry," Amelle said, her voice sounding thick to her own ears as she slowly pushed to her knees. "Should probably try to not do that so much." Running one hand over her face, she took a deep breath and let it out again.

"Should we be concerned he didn't wake up?" Varric asked.

"No," Amelle answered. "That was a damn lot of healing he got in one dose. Going to need more of it over a few days. Bones aren't shattered anymore, but nowhere near as strong as they ought to be." She closed her eyes, pressing the cool tips of her fingers against the lids and forced herself to focus. "Joints aren't twisted anymore, but they're going to be stiff and inflexible for a time. I can fix injuries, but I can't replace lost blood—and he lost a lot of that—and I can't rebuild muscle. Physical injuries like this, I can speed up the healing process, but it's not an instant thing."

"So what do we do about that?" he asked, though he was looking at her like he already knew what she was going to say.

She ran a hand through her hair, grimacing when her fingers got caught on something sticky that was probably better off not thought too hard about, and looked around them. "Did his horse—oh." The grey mare's reins were wrapped around a nearby sapling, and the animal was placidly grazing. "Didn't get away."

"Of course she didn't," Isabela replied with a snort. "The Rivaini are _excellent_ horsemen, I'll have you know."

"Which is why you prefer life on a ship," Varric pointed out.

"I never said I _liked_ horses. We're just good with them."

"Either way," Amelle said, pushing herself to her feet with a grunt, "I think we should probably tether the horse to the wagon and bring our new friend along to Lothering. Ostagar's too far behind us to turn back now, and we've already lost travel time. If he wakes en route and decides he wants to go another way, he'll be more than free to do that. But for now, probably best if we transport him to the wagon and get a move on. If there are more slavers coming to join this lot, I'd rather not be here when they arrive.

Rather than carrying the unconscious elf the whole distance back to the wagon, Amelle stayed with him while Isabela and Varric took the grey mare back up the road, and got it situated with Falcon and the other horses. Amelle needed a rest as well. For all the lyrium potion restored mana, she tended to feel lightheaded until things righted themselves normally. While she waited, she frowned down at her patient. It was definitely the same man, no doubt about that. And an escaped slave. An escaped slave who'd held off six gunmen while pinned under his horse.

Amelle was suddenly, _desperately_ relieved she'd sold him a jar of the good stuff.

She knew little about the Tevinters—beyond the country being overwhelmingly inhabited and populated by mages, and their inclinations toward the slave trade. She knew they were dangerous. Ruthless. The sort of people one typically took great pains to avoid.

"Perhaps they won't come looking for you in Lothering," she murmured. She hoped she was right.

The wagon soon came trundling along the road and the moment it slowed to a stop, Amelle hoisted herself up and in through the back. Their supplies were low, so there was room enough for them to put together a makeshift bed of blankets for the unconscious man to lie upon. It was tricky work maneuvering him into the wagon and onto the pallet, but she and Isabela managed it, while Varric offered advice that wavered between _remotely helpful_ and _not at all_.

"You staying back here, Hawke?" Varric asked her as Isabela crawled out to sit at the front of the wagon.

"I was considering it," she said. "Could be unpleasant if he wakes up disoriented."

Varric frowned, eyes flicking down to the stranger and back up again. "I thought you said Broody'd be out a while longer."

"Oh, he very likely will be. I'd rather not take chances, though."

"You think he could be trouble?"

She let out a soft bark of laughter at that. "I think I'd rather not irritate any man who can defend himself against six."

Varric's expressive face shifted from shrewd to wry as he chuckled in turn. "To say nothing of the _pinned under a horse_ part, huh?"

"My thoughts _exactly._"

In the end, Amelle opted to stay in the wagon for a fair portion of the trip. Her patient—who she couldn't help but at least mentally refer to as _Broody_—woke, but only for brief intervals, surfacing from slumber long enough for her to determine he wasn't in any immediate danger, despite a stubborn fever that seemed intent on returning in between bouts of healing. That troubled her, but she eased back the heat burning upon his skin as often as it took. She _hoped_ he was out of danger, at any rate. He did rouse occasionally, which Amelle found reassuring.

Only half a day's travel out of Lothering, darkness fell, so they found a quiet clearing off the main road with a gently trickling creek carving a winding path just beyond the tree line. It was a fine place to rest the horses and make camp before the final stretch of the trip. After they'd eaten, Varric and Isabela settled by the campfire and were soon entrenched in a particularly intense game of Diamondback. Amelle left them to their devices and crawled into the wagon to see to Broody's slow-healing injuries.

She lit the lantern with a flick of her fingers, and soon the warm amber glow chased away the dusky evening shadows. Her patient, still frustratingly nameless, save for the nickname, since none of his belongings bore any sort of name or label, lay still upon the bed of blankets.

She'd wiped away as much of the dirt and grime as possible from his face and hands, but grit dulled and darkened his pale hair—and she'd never seen strands so white on any man as young as he. For that matter, she'd never seen tattoos quite like his.

Head to toe, he was a walking—or in this case _sleeping_—mystery.

"Still so sure I have nothing you require?" she murmured as she knelt upon the wagon's knotted wood floor, running deft fingertips over one slow-healing leg and then the other; the bone that had been broken felt better than it had, but when she examined the knee of the other leg, the joint felt warm to the touch and swollen. _Best to start there_, then, she decided.

But as Amelle's hands flared to life with mana and healing magic, the man upon the pallet stirred, letting out a soft groan, barely audible, as his fingers twitched. His eyes were half open in the dim light, though he looked the furthest thing from alert.

"You're safe," she said quietly. There was a flask of fresh, cold water nearby, and she grabbed it, tilting the neck to his lips. "All right? You were injured in that fight, but you're safe, and your horse is fine."

He blinked slowly, swallowing the trickle of water. "…Safe," he finally managed, his voice low and rough.

"Yes." She remembered the furious desperation the slave hunters had shown, and it suddenly became _imperative_ he understand that he was in no immediate danger. "You're safe. I swear it."

A faint frown furrowed his brow, making him look for all the world like he wanted to argue with her. She brushed the hair away from his forehead, fingertips skimming the furrow, and he subsided minutely.

"We're just outside of Lothering," she explained slowly, not completely sure if he was picking up any of what she told him, but explaining anyway. "That's where we're headed. You'll be safe there till you've fully recovered."

He seemed to nod, or at least it _looked_ like it _could_ have been a nod. Or he could have just tumbled back into unconsciousness. After a few seconds, Amelle realized that was exactly what had happened.

"And _next_ time you open those eyes," she muttered, turning her attention back to his swollen and struggling knee, hands flaring to life as she took a breath of mana, "I'm finding out your blighted _name, _Broody_._"


	3. Chapter 3

The sun shone high above and Amelle was astride Falcon when the Hawke farm came into sight. The two-story clapboard farmhouse stood like a beacon, surrounded by stone outbuildings and flanked by two vast fields. Beyond them, for as far as Amelle could see, tall grass, a vibrant a green as she'd ever known, swayed and rippled in the wind, moving almost like water. The sound of a lowing cow carried on the breeze.

_Home. _Every trip had started feeling longer and longer, and though they were returning early, she felt as if she'd never been away for longer than she had now. Just the sight of the house made her heart lift giddily beneath her breast. Amelle adjusted her grip on the reins, resolutely resisting the urge to press her knees into Falcon's sides and close the rest of the distance at a gallop.

Varric snapped the reins and shot her a knowing look—so knowing she wondered if she was truly that transparent, and then decided she didn't care. "Oh, go on, Hawke," he said. "No one's gonna think less of you for going on ahead."

"_I_ will," Isabela sniffed.

"Okay, nobody but Rivaini's gonna think less of you for it. If you think you can live with that—"

Amelle didn't hear whatever else Varric had to say; her ears were too full of thundering hoofbeats and the wind as it rushed past. She'd grown up in Lothering, and she knew the roads and woodland as well as—better than—the back of her hand. In fact, she knew it as well as she knew her magic, as well as she knew the mana that came to life in her veins. Falcon knew the way, too. He pushed into a gallop without any effort, knowing this was home, knowing full well a warm stall and fresh hay were waiting for him.

Mother came around from the herb garden at the back of the house, carrying a bouquet of leafy, green somethings in her apron, her face lighting up at the sight of the familiar horse and rider barreling toward the house; sage, chamomile, lavender and spearmint all twined together on the breeze, smelling entirely and perfectly like _home._ Dismounting and barely remembering to keep hold of Falcon's reins, Amelle swept forward and crushed her mother in a one-armed hug.

"Amelle!" Leandra Hawke laughed, taking care not to drop the herbs she'd picked while at the same time returning her daughter's embrace. "I wasn't expecting you back for another week." She pulled back, worry marring her forehead. "Nothing's wrong, is there?"

"Quite the opposite," replied Amelle. "We came back early because our cupboards are entirely bare—we sold every last drop."

Maternal pride warmed her mother's face. "And there's been no… other trouble?"

"No trouble of the templar variety, no," she answered—and it was a relief that was one question she could answer _honestly_. "We've been managing to stay ahead of them, or behind them, or anywhere but directly in their way." There was no point in mentioning her own developing skills; those conversations always tended to worry Mother more than anything else. Behind her, the wagon was just turning off the road and making its way up to the house. "That said, we did bring back a stray."

"A… stray," Mother echoed, her eyes following Amelle's to the slowly approaching wagon. "Maker," she said on a dry chuckle, "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Nothing _bad._ On the road to Lothering, we encountered a man pinned down by—" _No,_ she admonished herself. _Don't mention slavers. Maker knows you don't need to give her _another_ thing to worry about while you're gone._ "—Bandits," she finished. "He'd been pinned down by bandits and quite seriously injured. Would it be all right if we made up a bed? I doubt he'll be any trouble; he's hardly been awake more than thirty seconds at a time since we found him."

"Bandits?"

"Oh, he'll be all right, I'm certain. It was a fair fight once we came along." She offered a smile she hoped was bolstering and sincere. "We sent the ruffians on their way, no need to worry."

It was common practice to tell Mother as little as humanly possible about the types of scrapes they occasionally found themselves in. Or… anything at all about their travels beyond the type of food one enjoyed in Denerim or how Amaranthine seemed to get the new muslins and calicos in before Gwaren.

"Hmm. I don't see why I can't make up the bed in your brother's room." She looked up then, looking hard at Amelle in that way only mothers in general—and Leandra Hawke _in particular_—could manage. It was a shrewd sort of look with eyes that seemed to bore right through Amelle, leaving her with the vaguest feeling she was about to be in trouble for something later. The look didn't last more than a few seconds, but was still more than enough time to unsettle Amelle, unsettling her _further_ when the expression vanished and her mother smiled.

"I'll go on in and make up the bed while you, Isabela, and Varric unpack the wagon," she said before disappearing into the house in a swirl of blue plaid.

With one last look at her mother's back, Amelle tied Falcon to the hitching post and turned to help Isabela and Varric start unloading. As Isabela hopped down, Amelle leaned in, whispering the word _bandits_ in the other woman's ear.

"And let me guess," she murmured back. "We _didn't_ kill every last one."

Amelle nodded. "Just make sure Varric knows. You _know_ how Mama loves chatting him up."

"As much as he loves being the one doing the chatting. Will do, kitten."

Unloading her charge was slightly tricky business, but being of a height, she and Isabela managed it fairly well for the most part, with Amelle carrying his upper body while Isabela supported the legs and delivered commentary. Varric chose the wiser course and remained downstairs with Leandra to regale her with the… significantly edited version of their exploits this particular trip.

"Are we _sure_ he's not just going to die on us, kitten?" Isabela asked once they were alone upstairs, the patient settled on Carver's narrow bed. Amelle was removing his boots and looked up through the dark fringe of her bangs to send her friend a sharply reproving look.

"_Yes_, I'm sure he's not just going to die on us."

"It's been two days," she remarked, one dark brow arching. "I'm not certain I've ever seen anyone _sleep_ like that."

"I've already told you, I can't replace lost blood; I can only make sure his body saves what it makes. I won't say it wasn't close, but he's come this far, and he's made it through the roughest part."

"Thanks to your," Isabela coughed delicately, "tender loving care. _Of course._"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure your imagination has been running positively _rampant_ since we took him on," muttered Amelle, trying very hard not to think of Isabela's preferred brand of yarn-spinning. "Do me a favor, though, and leave the storytelling to Varric?"

"I don't think I can do that," she replied, sitting with a flounce in a chair. "He's quite delicious-looking. And I'm sure he'll be so very," Isabela's voice dropped into a husky, sultry register, "_very_ thankful. Once he wakes up."

Amelle's reply did not expound further than, "Mmm."

Isabela, however, had clearly been expecting more of a volley, and practically _pouted. _"Oh, you're _no_ fun."

One boot came off, then the other, and Amelle draped a light quilt over the sleeping man. "I could turn you into a frog," she mused. "_That_ could be fun."

Isabela crossed one long, booted leg over the other and huffed. "You can't do that."

Straightening, Amelle planted both hands on her hips and shot the other woman an amused glare. "Just because I've never _tried_ doesn't mean I _can't._" She glanced again at her patient. "Now, shoo. I've got work to do."

"I just _bet_ you—"

"Isabela. _Frog._"

"Maker's _balls,_ you're touchy. I'm_ going," _Isabela said, and with a flounce, closed the door behind her as she left.

"She's only _half_ serious, I'm fairly sure," Amelle muttered to the unconscious man. "You don't have to worry about her. Much." She dragged a chair to the bedside and settled down, cracking her knuckles as the wood gave a gentle creak beneath her weight. "Now. Shall we see how well you're healing up?" A pause. "Yes, I thought sure you'd agree."

Folding back the quilt she'd just used to cover him, Amelle probed gently at each healing point. The swelling at both the knee and hip had returned, much as she'd thought, but unless she missed her guess, the broken leg was stronger than it had been. But joints were a tricky business; magic could only do part of the work, and even with the amount of healing she'd already applied, it was going to take some time to work the joints back to full strength and flexibility. Still, he was alive, which was more than she could have said for him had things worked out another way.

She pushed up one leg of his trousers, revealing the shin and calf that had been so shattered. Breathing in deeply and pulling at her mana, healing magic flared hot and cold at her hands as Amelle rested her palms against his shin, just above the damaged area. But before the glowing threads of healing magic could stretch out and surround the spot, a sharp inhale snapped her attention away from her work and to her right, where she saw the unconscious "Broody" was quite conscious, and looking not at all _broody._ No, the set of his jaw and the fire snapping hatefully in those green eyes radiated anything but a brooding disposition.

"It's all right—" she began, but had no time to say anything more, for the pale tattoos she'd admired and puzzled over at turns flared suddenly, _brilliantly_ bright, and though Amelle yanked her hands away and stood, the chair's legs scraping loudly across the floor just before it toppled, her patient was levering himself to his feet even faster than she could move away. His glare never abating, he wrapped one glowing hand around her neck and _pushed_, slamming her back hard against the wall.

_Maker, don't let Mama have heard that,_ she thought wildly as she struggled and wheezed for breath, grabbing and clawing at the arm that held her fast.

"Where have you brought me, _mage_?" he growled out. The answer, she feared, was only meant to be a rhetorical one, because after asking it, he thrust one glowing fist into her chest.

The pain was unbelievable. If she'd had any breath whatsoever, she'd have screamed and screamed and _screamed_ until either it stopped or he killed her. She struggled again to suck in any air she could, but the effort only made her chest—her lungs, the very bones in her body, her heart; oh, Maker, her _heart_—throb in lancing, stabbing agony, as if she might split apart or contract until there was nothing left of her.

"P-please…" she managed, though she could only feel the words forming at her lips. She couldn't hear a thing beyond the pounding of blood in her ears as his hand tightened harder around her throat and the edges of her vision began turning grey.

_Maker, please,_ she thought feverishly_. Don't let Mama see this. Don't let her walk in. Don't—_

"Where," he snarled, and Maker he was squeezing—he was _squeezing her heart_ as he leaned closer, closer until the light hurt her eyes and she clenched them shut, "_have you brought me?_"

And then all at once he let out a painful cry and the hand around her throat and the one clutching her heart were both gone, and then she could _breathe_. She sucked in a painful breath, and with hard, hacking coughs, Amelle slid down to the floor. She held her hand clutched against the spot where his _hand _had been a moment before, and was so shocked to find no wound, no blood up on her when she looked down at herself. When she looked up again, it was to find a dagger pressed to his throat and Isabela behind him, looking furious and fierce and not in the least bit contrite about the kick she'd delivered to the back of his injured knee.

"I have an idea, sweet thing," she purred through gritted teeth, "let the person you're asking the questions of get enough bloody breath to _answer. _It's only the polite thing to do after someone's saved your neck."

He snarled something in a language Amelle had never heard before, but Isabela just clucked her tongue, pressing the flat of the blade more firmly against his neck. "Language, language."

"Amelle?" Her mother's voice floated up the stairs. "Darling, what was that noise? Are you all right?"

"Everything's just peachy, Leandra," Isabela called brightly over her shoulder, never relinquishing her grip, never letting the dagger's blade slip even a fraction of an inch. "Kitten's puppy just tried taking a few steps before he was ready and had a little stumble is all." Then, lowering her voice, she looked down at Amelle. "You all right, kitten?"

Amelle's hands shook. Hell, she seemed to be shaking from head to foot, inside and out.

_His hand was in my chest,_ she thought numbly, the thought chasing around and around her head as she prodded her fingers at the sore spot around her sternum_. His _hand_ was in my chest. His _hand_ was in my _chest. For the moment, she was miles away from _all right. His hand was in my chest._

_Yeah, well,_ she thought dourly, _Daddy told me never to get involved. Could've been good advice, after all._

Realizing Isabela expected an answer to her question, Amelle pulled her mind back to herself and nodded once, sure the woman could see the lie of it. "I'm all—" grimacing at the rasp of her own voice, she swallowed hard—it hurt and she coughed, which only hurt _worse_—and tried again. "I'm all right. Or will be. I just need a moment." After a second or two, she added, "He should be off his feet."

"He's damned lucky I don't throw him down the stairs. And out the door for good measure."

"I'd rather you not undo all of my work, Isabela." Moving slowly and carefully, and conscious of every twinge and ache, she pushed to her feet. "It's mana I won't get back."

"Well, puppy?" Isabela asked, glaring at the man she held. "What do you say? Are you going to behave politely while kitten here gets her bearings, or are things going to have to get _unpleasant_?"

"My name is Fenris," he ground out.

"At any other point that would have been positively fascinating, but it's not an answer to my question."

"He needs to sit," Amelle protested. "You've probably reinjured his knee."

Fenris—well, at least he had a _name_ now—shot her an inscrutable look as Isabela retorted, "I hope you don't expect me to feel bad about that."

"It wasn't an easy thing to heal."

For her part, Isabela looked as if she had something particularly foul-tasting sitting upon her tongue, and the only cure was to spout off any number of obscenities of varying potency. "Fine," she said, turning Fenris free, but steadfastly refusing to sheathe her dagger as she watched him with narrowed eyes. With a glare, Fenris limped to the edge of the bed and carefully eased himself down on it. Though he was sitting now, nothing about him looked remotely at ease; in fact, he looked _coiled_, as if ready to spring into action at the first opportune moment. Bracing one hand against the wall, Amelle bowed her head and took several deep breaths, summoning healing mana that cooled and eased away the grating pain in and around her throat; whatever damage Fenris had done when he'd reached into Amelle and grabbed her heart, however, was not so easily alleviated, and even after the initial pain was gone, a dull phantom ache lingered.

From the corner of her eye, she noted the way his body went rigid and his jaw clenched when she summoned her magic. Her gut reaction was not to give too terribly much of a damn, given that he'd _shoved his hand in her chest. _Then she remembered—it had been _Tevinter_ hunters after him. Tevinter hunters likely hired and paid by Tevinter magisters. All things considered, that knowledge still didn't leave her feeling terribly charitable. Particularly since one of those hunters had driven a dagger into _her_ back.

"So," she began, righting the toppled chair and sitting down in it. Her voice was still slightly husky, but there wasn't much to be done about that right now. "It seems to me there's a conversation we need to have."

"Starting with the part where we saved your damned life!" Isabela snapped as she moved to lean against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest.

"Isabela," Amelle sighed.

"Well, we _did._"

Throughout this exchange, Amelle realized Fenris was looking at her. More than that, he was watching, _scrutinizing_ her, as if he'd seen her face somewhere before. Then she saw the exact moment when he realized he _had_ seen her face before, and where.

"You… you are the merchant from Ostagar," he said slowly. "And she…" he said, with a glance in Isabela's direction, "was in the _crowd_." His tone, as well as the look he swung her way, was vaguely accusatory.

"Please don't tell me you're going to harp on my sales ethics _now_," Amelle replied pertly, arching an eyebrow at him. "Because given the reputations of some more unscrupulous purveyors and peddlers of goods, I think I can hardly be blamed for stacking the deck a _little _in my own favor."

"The ointment worked as you said it would," he said quietly, brows lowering into something… a little too thoughtful to be a proper scowl.

"Note my lack of surprise." She leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "All right. Fenris. Care to tell me _what in the Void_ that," she gestured at her chest, "was all about?"

Several seconds of silence ticked by. Finally, and though it looked as if the words were being pulled from him, he said, "I was… disoriented. The last thing I knew, I had been cornered by the hunters pursuing me. In my attempt to dismount, my horse was injured and fell upon me, pinning me. When… assistance appeared to have arrived, I thought it a figment of my imagination. When I awoke to realize it was a mage healing me…"

"You thought the worst?"

He nodded once, briskly. "I escaped a land where mages rule all. I thought myself to be rid of magic, to have at least escaped it, but it has followed me, hunted me at every turn."

Amelle leaned back in the chair, spreading her hands wide. "And now you find yourself in the company of another mage."

A flicker of frustration and annoyance passed over his features, but he seemed to push them aside. Good news for her, she thought. "I should have realized sooner what you really were," he said, after a moment.

"Because the ointment worked?"

Fenris shot Amelle a knowing look. "It worked too well."

Well, that was something, at least. She smiled, and she knew there was an unrepentant tilt to it. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"I see." And as she leaned back, Fenris leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his thighs as he clasped his hands. "In that case, since we are to be plain, might I ask you something?"

"People who shove fists in other people's chests," Isabela drawled, "don't usually _get_ to ask questions."

Amelle shot Isabela a glare, then turned back to Fenris. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret saying yes, but I'll say it anyway."

He fixed her with shrewd green eyes. "What sort of mage are you?"

The question made her blink. "I'm sorry?"

"Every person wants something. What do _you_ want?"

Amelle exchanged a glance with Isabela, who shrugged. "I know what my answer is, kitten, but you're not exactly the fame and fortune _type._"

"Gee, thanks ever so." She turned back to Fenris with a shrug. "I don't know," she finally admitted. "I want to survive. I want to keep my mother safe and the farm solvent. I want to avoid the Stannard's templars." There was more she wanted, but they were the foolish wants of a girl who'd spoken rashly once and regretted it every day. They were not the sorts of wants one divulged to a stranger, particularly one who'd tried to kill her minutes before. "Insofar as I've got _wants,_ anyway. Safety and security for myself and the people important to me."

"A noble goal," he replied, sending her a level look, "but I have seen many crimes done in the name of noble goals."

"Hmm. And the conversation suddenly turns less complimentary."

He grimaced and looked away. "I imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth. I… when I awoke, I was disoriented."

Slowly, she put the pieces together and nodded. "And you… thought you'd been captured."

"I did." A muscle jumped in his jaw as he swallowed.

Sensing the danger was past, Isabela pushed away from the wall with a snort. "This one's your call, Hawke," she said, sauntering to the open door. "Varric's busy keeping your mother entertained, but I should let him know he doesn't have to turn your guest into a pincushion just yet."

"Thank you, Isabela."

"Just watch yourself, kitten," was all she said before disappearing down the short hall. Isabela's booted footfalls were barely audible as she made her way downstairs. When Amelle looked back to Fenris, she saw he was glaring down at his hands, still tightly clasped.

"You aren't a prisoner here, you know," she told him, her voice low. "You were… near death by the time we could safely reach you." Amelle paused, adding, "Your injuries were…serious, and you're not fully healed yet. You slept nearly the whole trip to Lothering."

"I see," he replied quietly, brows twitching together in what looked like momentary confusion as he continued looking down at his hands.

Shooting Fenris a wry look, Amelle added, "And I'd imagine you feel like the Void." She nodded at his knee. "Particularly now, since I doubt that was anything like a _gentle_ kick. Besides that, you lost more blood than anyone ought and your other leg was in more different pieces than I cared to count. I'll tell you right now, you want to stay and recover? You're more than welcome to. You want to saddle up your mare and head on out? You're welcome to do that too. We didn't exactly leave anyone behind, so the chances of you being tracked here anytime _soon_ are comfortably nestled between slim and none."

It took a moment, several of them in fact, but eventually subsiding, Fenris nodded. "Very well. I… will stay. For a time."

"You sure? Because I want to make sure you realize that if you do stay, then what the healer says, goes." When Fenris began to bristle, Amelle held up one finger and added quickly, "I'm not going to see you do any more damage to yourself. I can help you heal without magic if that's what you really want, but it'll take a damn sight longer. Beyond that, if I say you stay off the leg, you stay off the leg. If I say it's time for a poultice, it's time for a poultice. Are you seeing a trend?"

"I am," he replied, but not without a glower. Amelle only smiled at him. Cheerfully.

"Good."

"But I _will_ make myself useful," he argued. "I owe you a debt."

"I wouldn't say _that._ We didn't do anything any other decent person wouldn't have done."

"You have a high opinion of other people," he remarked, shooting her a dry look. "I've met few in my travels who have sought anything more than personal gain."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

He shrugged a shoulder. "In any case, while I am… here, if you require my assistance, I am at your disposal."

"Because of this… debt you say you owe me."

"Indeed."

It was hard not to chuckle a little at that, and yet Amelle wasn't wholly surprised, either. "Not a fan of charity?" she asked Fenris, lifting her brows at him. Answering her own question with a shrug, she said, "Fair enough. You want to be useful, Maker knows there's enough around a farm to keep plenty of people busy. But you're still not doing a damned thing short of having a cup of tea with Mama until I say you're fit for it." Fenris nodded, but the gesture—to say nothing of the flash of irritation in his eyes—managed to leave Amelle with the distinct feeling that this was going to be a point they'd be arguing over for most of the next few days.

"Very well," he said. It sounded a whole lot like, _Like hell._

"All right. Now that we've got the unpleasantness over with, what do you say about letting me finish what I came in here to do in the first place? Without the attempts on my life this time?" His grimace told her clearly enough that if Fenris did not precisely _regret_ that little stunt, neither was he entirely proud of such an… overreaction.

"I believe you indicated my remaining here depended on the condition I say yes," he finally answered.

"I don't _have_ to use magic," she riposted, showing him her hands.

"You may," he relented. "It will be, as you said, quicker."

"At least you can be made to see sense," she murmured, dragging her chair a little closer to the bedside. As Fenris settled back upon the narrow bed, a sudden wince creased his forehead when he bent and straightened the knee Isabela had kicked, answering any questions Amelle might've had about the state of that particular joint. Clasping her hands, a series of soft cracks and pops issued forth from her knuckles, and with a breath, she coaxed the sudden rush of mana into the blue-white light of her healing magic.

"Shall we?" she asked. At Fenris' nod, Amelle placed her hands on his swollen, damaged knee.

#

Fenris wouldn't have thought himself a man easily surprised. It took a day like today—or an hour like the last hour—to demonstrate just how wrong he was on that score.

No, he'd not been surprised to awaken in the company of a mage. His last thoughts before succumbing to pain and darkness had been anger that he'd been bested by _hunters_. After running and evading them for so long, he'd been beyond furious with himself for getting caught. Upon waking, the first glimmers of surprise came when he realized he'd not been restrained, when he caught her entirely unawares, when he saw fear and shock and something that was kin to betrayal in her eyes as his hand wrapped around her throat—fear, shock, and betrayal, but not a whisper of disdain or fury.

Fury came later, of course, though not his own, when his knee exploded into bright shards of agony and the cold, sharp blade of a dagger pressed against his throat. But with that cold blade came clarity and the realization that the woman in front of him was none other than the merchant he'd dealt with in Ostagar. _Hawke_. That had been her name, the one from whom he'd bought the ointment for Agrippa—the ointment that had worked uncommonly well.

Like _magic_, one might say.

He'd been a fool for not noticing it right away, but he'd also been desperate to heal Agrippa's wound, and hadn't wanted to see how unusually well the ointment worked, only that it had worked, and his mare was well enough to travel again the next morning.

The lyrium in his skin prickled in response to the magic she wielded, but little else; Fenris looked at Hawke, watching intently as she concentrated on applying her healing spells his injuries. He scarcely recognized her now—there was no paint upon her face, and the dusty traveling clothes she wore were a far cry from the crimson gown he'd last seen her in. Beyond that, there was something… intangibly different about her—the sense of _showmanship_ was gone; she was just a woman in a quiet room, healing an injured leg.

"It shouldn't take too long to get you right as rain," she murmured, frowning hard as she worked. "A few days more, if you take it easy and don't overtax yourself. You'll want to be mindful of your arm and shoulders, too. You caught a few bullets—one broke your collarbone, so just be careful." The magic flared off from her fingertips and she shook them out. "That should do for a bit. Next the hip, if you please." She gestured, indicating he lay back, and then she summoned her magic again, sending the threads of light to yet another injury site. "Your mare is fine, by the way. Her injuries were mostly superficial. She's likely in the stables now, dining on oats and alfalfa."

"And we are… in Lothering, you said."

"That's right, at the one and only Hawke farm. I don't know where you were headed, but we figured you stood a better chance of survival if we brought you with us, rather than taking you back to Ostagar." She worked a moment longer before adding, "It's pure luck we came across you anyway. We sold the last of our stock in one day. Normally we wouldn't have headed back for another day, maybe two."

"I shall count myself fortunate."

"Fortunate, hmm?" she said, a crooked grin tilting her lips, though she kept her attention focused on her magic. "You didn't seem all that thrilled with me a little while ago."

He grimaced. "I have no reason to like or trust mages. But I concede you are not Danarius."

She glanced up at him through the fringe of her hair. "Danarius?"

"The magister to whom I was… in service." He swallowed hard, adding bitterly, "My master."

She said nothing for a moment. Then, finally, "I see."

Fenris fell silent, watching her magic, impossibly bright for such thin strands of light, sink past the dark cloth of his trousers, then feeling it soak into his skin, down through bone and sinew, burning like the hottest ice as it slowly mended what was damaged. "Whether you are at all like him remains to be seen."

"Mmm. That sounds like quite a vote of confidence," she replied wryly as the ache in his hip started to fade. He hadn't realized he'd _been_ in pain until that pain receded. "If it's all the same to you, I'll do my best to avoid living up to that particular comparison."

He did not mention that Danarius was far more accomplished in inflicting injuries than healing them.

From his hip, Hawke turned her attention to the leg that had been broken. "Will they keep looking for you?" she asked. "The hunters. Will they track you?"

"They will come as long as my master keeps sending them. And he is too proud to stop now."

"He… wants you that badly?"

Fenris snorted. "He doesn't want _me_ at all."

Her brows contorted in confusion. "That doesn't make any—"

"My markings," he broke in brusquely.

"I see."

"Do you?"

"I saw well enough what they allow you to do," she replied steadily. "And I can imagine that kind of power appealing to a certain kind of person."

"Some might say the same thing of the power a spirit healer wields," he countered.

Hawke let out an indelicate snort of laughter. "Yes, witness the power I hold. I craft ointments and tonics sold to keep the roof patched, the animals fed, and the fields tended, and attempt to heal elves who then try to kill me. I'm quite intimidating, I'm sure." She shot him a sidelong glance. "And how can you be so certain I'm a spirit healer?"

"You aren't denying it." At her shrug, he added, "And a common healer would have a far more difficult time mending these injuries."

"Guilty as charged, I suppose. At any rate, we're done for now." The glow hovering around her hands flared off into nothing. "I recommend you get some rest," she said, rubbing her hands and flexing her fingers as she stood. "Supper won't be for a couple of hours yet, but I know it's been a good while since you've had a proper meal, so I'll see if there's anything I can scare up in the meantime. Your saddlebags are down with the rest of our gear, so I'll get those up to you—I didn't figure on you waking up this soon."

"I… understand."

She nodded once. "I imagine you probably wouldn't mind washing up—that's usually the fourth or fifth order of business after coming back from a haul, so it'll be a while yet before any baths get started, I'm afraid." She nodded at a small table by one of the windows. On it rested a basin and pitcher, and a small towel hung over the edge of the table. "That's fresh water, so hopefully it'll—"

"That will more than suffice."

"All right then. Try and stay off your feet, and I'll be back with your belongings after I've checked on the horses."

It wasn't until she was gone, her footsteps fading down the stairs and out the door, followed by the sharp, strange reverberation of her voice as she called out to someone named "Merrill," that he realized he had not thanked Hawke for her hospitality. It was not lost on Fenris that there was _no reason_ for her to do any of what she was doing for him.

It was then he realized he also hadn't apologized for attempting to kill her.

No. No reason at all.


	4. Chapter 4

As Hawke had predicted, it took time for Fenris' injuries to fully and properly heal. Indeed, he'd never rested so well, so consistently as he had the past three days. Neither had he eaten so well; he was unaccustomed to eating three meals in a day, much less on anything resembling a regular schedule. There had even been a bath that first night, and though he was entirely sure the water had been heated magically, Fenris likewise knew he'd have been a fool to feel anything but grateful for the luxury of a steaming-hot bath.

The Hawke farmhouse was, if nothing else, _quiet._ He'd always thought himself accustomed to being alone with his own thoughts, but this was something else entirely. The woman—Isabela—and the dwarf left late that first night, and noise, laughter, and raucous conversation left with them; Fenris overheard enough to learn they usually stayed at an inn in Lothering (and from that he inferred they—though more specifically Isabela—had a distaste for the sorts of early mornings that were commonplace on a farm). However, the resultant quiet was not unpleasant; on the contrary, it was peaceful, so very peaceful that it left him restless. And that restlessness gave way to agitation.

The fact that the hunters had managed to ambush him so effectively still grated, and though Fenris believed Hawke when she said they were all dead, he knew too well that Danarius would send more. He was relentless, determined, and, above all, proud. Any reprieve at all depended heavily on how long it took for anyone to realize those hunters were dead. With no small amount of luck, the trail would be cold by the time anyone realized the latest team of hunters had failed to capture him. The road was a heavily traveled one, and other travelers—to say nothing of weather—likely, _hopefully_ would have marred any tracks beyond the point of recognition.

But even that would not stop the hunters, only delay them. They had their methods, and while recent events had surely bought him _time,_ there was no way to tell how much. One thing was certain, and that was he could not linger here longer than necessary. Once he was healed, once he could travel, he had to leave and make way to Amaranthine; from there, Kirkwall.

After Kirkwall… Fenris didn't know. But the city was large enough for him to disappear for a time, allowing him an opportunity to plan his next move. Perhaps he'd leave Agrippa with Hawke as thanks for her assistance, and travel the distance to Amaranthine on a hired horse—he hadn't the coin to book sea transport for his mare, and even if he did, the horse was as easily recognized as he was, and he'd have less need for a mount in Kirkwall. From what he'd seen, even given his limited view from the bedroom window, the Hawke farm's acreage was not insignificant. A great deal depended on what Hawke had to say in the matter, but it was an idea worth considering.

This led his thoughts back around to Amelle Hawke, and it was far from the first time his thoughts had traveled in such a direction since he'd woken here. He'd been certain, _so very_ certain he'd been caught, that he'd have to cut a swath through his captors, and he'd simply _acted_, without pausing to think, to assess, to gauge the situation. He'd been disoriented. It had nearly gone badly.

Insofar as Hawke was concerned, she left him alone for the most part. She brought him meals on a tray and stayed to deliver a rush of healing magic to his recovering injuries, but she never entered without a purpose, and though she spoke with him while she worked, she tended not to linger or speak… unnecessarily, and whether this was due to a dislike for small talk or a lingering dislike of him, he did not know. She frequently brought books when she came to see him, and though Fenris flipped through them, he found he had difficulty concentrating enough on the words to make any sort of sense of them. But still, Hawke brought them, and by the second day a sizable collection had accumulated on top of the dresser.

Mostly he rested (restlessly) and submitted (somewhat less restlessly) to several applications of healing magic each day. If he felt he was healing slowly, it only served as a reminder that his injuries had been very severe, and nothing so easily remedied with a potion of poultice. Truth be told, he'd never been on the receiving end of a spirit healer's ministrations, but he had no doubt that was precisely what Amelle Hawke was. A spirit healer, and one with significant power, one who had—and Fenris had no illusions about this—saved his life. He still wasn't sure how he felt about that knowledge, but whatever his opinions were, it did not alter the material point. There was now a debt between them, and it was one he fully intended to repay.

That morning, he'd risen early, as was his custom—it was an easy habit to maintain on a farm, when Hawke and her mother rose with the sun as well—and was fully dressed by the time Hawke rapped lightly and came in, balancing his breakfast on a tray. She was dressed differently this morning—carrying the tray, she backed into the room wearing a dress made of a pale, light material that moved with her, embroidered with twining green vines. It was… a change from the plain, simply-cut dresses, or the trousers she typically favored during the day. A purse dangled from her wrist and a bonnet hung at her elbow, swaying gently on green ribbons.

"Good morning," she said, handing him the tray before pulling a chair up to his bedside. "Sleep well?"

"As well as can be expected."

She hung the bonnet and purse from the back of the chair. "You say that every morning," she replied, "and I still can't tell whether it means you slept well."

"I did."

"Oh. Well that's a relief. Mama prides herself on keeping a home where visitors feel comfortable." Her mouth twisted into something rueful as she wrinkled her nose. "As she likes to remind me at every opportunity, since I'm gone so long at a time I might as well _be_ a visitor."

"Why is that?" He asked the question before he could think better of it, and there was a barely perceptible stutter in Hawke's movements as she situated herself in the chair, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt.

After a moment of thought that lasted little longer than a sliver of a second, she shrugged and said, "I can do the farm a lot more good if I'm _not_ here. We do well enough with it—it's a good parcel of land that my father bought—but I can accomplish more if I can make a little extra to pay the help we need. More than if I tried going out there and plowing the field myself, I can tell you that." She fell silent, and though she _looked_ as if she had more to say, Hawke instead pursed her lips and turned her attention to the leg that had been broken, blue-white light flaring around her fingers.

The sensation was peculiar, and no matter how many times Hawke had funneled healing spell after healing spell into his injuries, he could not quite become accustomed to the thrum of magic, strangely hot and cold all at the same time. More than that, the lyrium in his skin prickled and reacted to the pulse of magic, and by the time Hawke was finished treating one injury and moving on to the next, Fenris was left with a tingling ache that seemed to reach down to the very marrow in his bones.

Then she laid her fingers against his knee, gently prodding at it, a faintly bitter smile at her lips. "Besides, if I were here all the time, I'd get too comfortable. I'd start to forget and… slip. And… well. I don't want that."

"How do you avoid…" he began, then stopped, certain it wasn't any of his business to begin with. "Forgive me. It is none of my affair."

"How do I avoid the templars, you mean?" At his nod, she thought a moment, then tilted her head at him. "All right, but if you go tattling to them, I'll be incredibly put out." Threads of light and energy pulsed forward from her fingers again, this time sinking into his knee. "I expend mana," she explained. "Vast amounts of it, more than I can hope to replenish in even a day. I keep my mana levels as low as I can. Between that and taking great pains _not_ to call attention to myself, I manage to stay just outside their notice." The light faded, and she frowned, poking and prodding at the joint. "Mm, yes, that's better. Anyway, as I was saying—vast mana expenditure. Sometimes Varric and Isabela find someone who needs healing, and lots of it, and they bring me to him—or her. For instance, while we're traveling through mining towns, they'll usually find someone who's lyrium-sick. And let me tell you, nothing'll drain mana like trying to purge lyrium sickness out of somebody. That usually does the trick, and with as _many_ mining towns as are around…"

"There are many opportunities for you to… manage this," he finished for her. Hawke nodded.

"Sometimes there just aren't people who need healing, though." She shrugged again. "Or they need the healing but are too afraid of getting help from a mage to accept it. And then I've got to get creative. So, if we're in the middle of nowhere and come into a thunderstorm, I'll add lightning to it. If we hit snow, I add ice. Just enough to keep myself undetectable." She grinned, then, looking all too pleased with herself. "Which is why I'm doing this _now,_ before heading into town. My mana won't hit bottom—that's not a pretty sight—but if I expend enough now, then I won't invite notice later."

His meal finished, Hawke moved the tray and turned her attention to his hip; that joint seemed to resist healing more than his knee, he noticed. Only an hour after Hawke had treated him the day before, his hip had frozen up and began aching all over again. When Fenris told Hawke this, she nodded slowly.

"I'm not surprised. You're healing well—better than I'd even expected, tell you the truth. But only movement and activity will keep everything supple. How's the collarbone? Feeling any discomfort around the shoulders?" When he shook his head, she nodded and then prodded gently at the arm that had been shot. "And how are you coming along there?" she asked, fingertips finding the site of the healed bullet wound with surprising accuracy.

"Well enough."

"I'll take that to mean you're feeling better."

"I am."

At this, Hawke leaned back in the bedside chair and regarded him levelly. "There's no doubt you're coming along well," she said, rubbing absently at her hands. "I definitely think you need more rest, but I've repaired the _damage,_ at least. The repaired muscle and joints are… new," she explained, reaching behind her and collecting the bonnet. "And as such, they're going to be weaker than you might be used to. Your knee and hip were in the worst shape, but that bullet tore up your arm something fierce. The muscle _is_ fully repaired, but it's also going to be weak. You're going to need to rebuild your strength as well as your flexibility."

Neither strength nor flexibility were to be gained in a sickbed. It was the best news he'd heard yet.

"May I assume you're telling me I may leave this bed for more than five minutes at a time?"

She nodded, slipping on the bonnet and tying the ribbon as she spoke. "If you want, you can take a walking tour of the farm. But the moment anything starts to ache, rest it." Hawke then stood, brushing the wrinkles from her dress, and started for the door. "I might recommend visiting the barn first. I suspect your mare misses you," she said, then hesitated a moment, her hand on the doorknob. "By the way, what's her name?"

"Agrippa," he replied, slowly swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Oh," she murmured. "On second thought, that might be why she's been so cranky. I've been calling her 'Freckles.'"

Preparatory to standing, Fenris paused and looked at her. "Freckles," he echoed.

"It's not like you were available for consultation," she replied with a shrug. "You've been _resting_."

_"Freckles,_" he said again, more incredulously than the last.

"Hey, there's _nothing wrong_ with that name," came Hawke's cross retort.

He arched an eyebrow at her. "And what is your own animal's name?"

Hawke looked at him a long moment. "Falcon," she sniffed.

"Falcon… for a Hawke?" he said, allowing himself a dry chuckle. "I suppose that was meant to be clever?"

And then Hawke did the strangest thing. She _blushed._ He felt his eyebrow creep higher. The silence stretched out, filling the room until it was near to overwhelming before she blurted, somewhat defensively, "I was _younger_ when he was born—my father had me name him the night he was foaled—and that might not be his… his_ full_ name. Satisfied?"

As it happened, Fenris found he was not satisfied. "Your horse…" he said slowly, "has a _full_ _name?_"

"I was _young._"

"And what…" Fenris was almost afraid to ask. "What _is _its full name?"

Narrowing her eyes, Hawke shook her head and tossed back, "Oh, like I'm telling you _now_." She opened the door and started through it, and then paused. "_Anyway_. Like I said, I'm headed into Lothering for a bit. Is there anything you need?"

"I… no. But I would ask how far the distance is to town?"

"Just a little over two miles," she replied. "Why?"

"Perhaps I might accompany you. As you said, I need the exercise."

"You'll also note I said you still need _rest_," she told him, closing the door again and leaning against it. Hawke crossed her arms, shooting him a look of consternation. "You're fit for a stroll around the farm, yes, but not a five mile jaunt." She met his glare for several long moments, then shook her head, then pushed away from the door with a sigh and sat down on the corner of the bed. "I understand you're feeling… prickly. Restless. And I don't doubt you've got your own plans, and you're looking forward to heading off to wherever it was you were headed. But I'm also not sure you understand just how badly you were hurt." Her smile was wry and crooked. "I reckon you'll realize it soon enough after getting out and about, though. We'll talk after supper and see how you're feeling then." Tilting her head, her smile turned less wry and more tinged with genuine amusement. "Feel like joining us at the table?"

"As you've already observed, I am feeling restless. I would welcome any change in scenery at this point."

"It'll just be the four of us," she said, almost apologetically. "Merrill—she helps out on the farm, mostly with the animals." Then Hawke stopped, pressing her lips together pensively. "She's a bit of an odd bird, but she's got a good heart." Another pause, before she added in a somewhat pointed undertone, "I'd rather _not_ see you try to crush it."

"This is your home, I would not—"

"Merrill _is_ a mage." She said the words bluntly, and with the edge of a challenge to them. "I'm telling you that right now, up front, no surprises. I accept what you told me the other day as truth—you were disoriented and startled, and I can't blame you for that. All the same, I don't want to see it happen again. And I especially don't want to see it happen around—or _to_—the people most important to me. Or over Mama's pie, which she is making particular for the occasion of you coming down to join us for dinner."

"While I have little cause to like mages—"

"So complimentary, Fenris. Maker, you'll make me blush." Fenris glared at this, but Hawke only shrugged. "I wanted to give you some warning in advance. What you do with it is your business."

"Very well," he said finally. "I… appreciate the notice."

This appeared to satisfy her and, with a nod, she stood again. "You're sure there's nothing you need from town?"

"No," he replied, "not at this time." He would need to replace some articles of clothing at some point; the shirt and trousers he'd been wearing were both torn and bloody and, he strongly suspected, would find their way to a burn pile before long. That didn't leave him with much. It was hardly a priority; he would deal with the matter later, if he dealt with it at all. Perhaps it could keep until he reached Kirkwall.

"All right. I'll be back in a couple of hours." She smiled then, revealing a dimple in her left cheek. "Try to stay out of trouble." With that, Hawke swept out of the room with a rush of skirts and closed the door behind her. Her footsteps thudded down the stairs and out of the house; through his open window, he heard her call for Merrill, and by the time Fenris reached the window, bracing his hands against the sill, he caught sight of Hawke deep in conference with a short, slight elf with dark hair. Hawke tilted her head and pointed at something in the barn and Merrill shook her head. At this news, whatever it was, Hawke's shoulders slumped and she nodded, then reached out to give Merrill's shoulder a squeeze before turning her steps toward the road.

#

Lothering wasn't a large town. It wasn't even large-ish. But it and its people did well enough. The soil was fertile, if occasionally rocky, and most of its farmers traveled up to Redcliffe to sell their wares. It was a damn sight better than most of the mining towns they'd stopped in, with its modest, tree-lined town square and the chantry, standing tall and bright above all the other buildings. The day was pleasant and cool and Amelle lingered by shopfront windows as she made her way past the general store (she needed to place an order for more flasks and jars), the dressmaker (something floaty and impractical in butter-yellow muslin caught her eye), and the feed store (Falcon really did need a new bit for his bridle), finally stopping at the apothecary and pushing her way inside.

The dim shop smelled sharply of roots and medicinal herbs, most stored in heavy glass jars, lined up upon floor-to-ceiling shelves, some of which had begun to sag under the considerable weight. Some plants hung drying from the rafters, and a fair few hung low enough that they brushed the top of Amelle's head as she walked into the tiny shop. Old Mathers—who was at least half a head shorter than Amelle and ran no risk of hitting the hanging herbs—stood behind the battered counter, painstakingly measuring out dried spindleweed onto a set of scales, holding his breath as he added flake after brittle flake of the plant until the scales balanced. Then he swept the lot of it into a paper packet and exhaled in a rush. Given the color of his face, Amelle found herself wondering just how long he'd been holding his breath that way. When he looked up and saw her, his wrinkled face split into a wide grin and he sealed the packet up, tied it with twine, and set it aside.

"Well m'girl, as I live and breathe," he said, blinking owlish eyes made even more owlish by the spectacles he wore. "Haven't seen you around these parts for a while, have we?"

"Only got back into town a few days ago," she explained. "And I had to help my mother get a few things squared away first."

He nodded his approval at her priorities. "Good, good. And how're you set for supplies?"

"Oh, I'm well and truly cleaned out," she said with a pleased grin. "But I'll have a proper list written up for you once I know when we'll be leaving again. I expect I'll stay at least through the planting season."

He made a note in a ledger balancing precariously on the edge of the counter. "Just remember," he said, "I need to order the frostrock special. Takes a while to get it down from the mountains."

"Fair enough. I think if you duplicate my last frostrock order, then, that should be all right." She considered it, then nodded slowly. "Yes, let's place the order for the frostrock now, I'll get back to you on the rest in a few weeks."

Mathers peered at her over his glasses. "That's all then?"

"Not… exactly," she said, fingers twisting in the strings of her purse. "I need something else. Something… particular."

He waved a hand at the endless shelves. "You haven't asked me yet for something I couldn't locate for you, my girl."

But when she told the apothecary what it was she needed, he grew serious, the owlish eyes narrowing in concern. "Well, I've got what you need to make it, that's true enough. But I'm not sure I like the idea of you playing around with that, though. Not going to try and sell it, are you?"

"Maker, no," Amelle answered immediately. "This is… for something else entirely. And I don't need much."

"No, you don't, potent as it is," Mathers grumbled as he climbed the heavy wooden ladder to one of the highest shelves. He pulled a heavy jar into his arms, and carefully navigated his way back down again, repeating the trip several times as he collected ingredients. He measured out each item with twice as much care as he had the spindleweed, and then tucked it all away in a flat, paper-wrapped parcel.

"Thank you," she said, handing over payment as she took the packet.

"Not sure if you ought to be thanking me for that, missy."

She pressed her lips into a line, but didn't reply. Instead, she tapped her fingers against the parcel. "And how might one… administer it?"

Mathers scowled at her over his spectacles, then leaned in closer, resting his forearms against the scarred countertop. "If that's for you," he said, his voice low, "let me tell you right now you don't want to take it undiluted. Make it a tincture—a few drops of that in a little vial of laudanum'll more than suffice, if you've got in mind what I think you've got in mind."

"Oh, what makes you think I've got anything in mind?" she asked, blinking guilelessly at him.

The old man just scowled at her. "Don't you try and fool me there, missy. I knew your father, and you're nothin' if not the fruit from that tree. Remember, make a tincture, and use it _sparingly._"

"Yes, sir," she said, dropping a little curtsey.

"Don't need none of your sass, neither," he grumbled, putting away the jars, the ladder creaking as he climbed and descended, twice as spry as a man half his age. "You just promise me you'll be careful, Mely. You're my best customer, y'know."

"And you're the best apothecary for miles."

He gave a little _hmph. _"And don't you forget it."

The day was bright enough that Amelle had to blink a few times after coming out of the little shop, then turned her steps toward the feed store, and if she _happened_ to wander into the dressmaker's, she could hardly be blamed, could she? It was _right there—_

"And what are _you_ up to, kitten?" a painfully familiar voice drawled.

Clamping her teeth together and smiling was about the only thing Amelle could do to keep herself from swearing out loud as she whirled around to face Isabela. Deftly, she slipped the little packet into her purse.

But not deftly enough, as it turned out.

"Up to?" she asked brightly, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. "I'm just picking up a few things for Mama, getting a bit of fresh air—that's a _beautiful_ frock, 'Bela, is it new? That shade of blue is so becoming on you."

Isabela flashed a smile, tossing her hair a bit as she turned, the ocean-blue gown flaring out a little as she did. "It _is_. Don't you just love it?"

"Oh, I do. We haven't seen anything that nice since—"

"Since Denerim, I know," she replied, taking a peek at her reflection in the shop window and preening a little. "I've been on the lookout for a hat, but haven't found anything quite right just yet."

The next thing Amelle knew, Varric was holding a particularly familiar paper parcel up between two fingers. "And from the looks of things, Rivaini hasn't been the only one doing some shopping today."

Sputtering, Amelle made a grab for the packet, snatching it and shoving it into her purse again, this time taking care to pull the drawstring _shut._ "Excuse me," she hissed, "that is my _private property._"

"Yeah, sort of figured as much, especially given the part where I just lifted it out of your purse."

"You aren't even remotely sneaky, you know," Isabela said mournfully, falling into step with her, tucking her arm through Amelle's. Varric walked along on the other side. "What did I tell you about the magebane, kitten?" Isabela asked, lowering her voice.

"Plenty," Amelle sighed.

"And yet you insist on ignoring me. Varric, make her listen to me."

"Something make you think that I've got power like that, Rivaini?" Varric drawled.

"Well, you are damnably persuasive."

"Way I see it," he replied with a shrug, "Hawke's going to do what Hawke's going to do. You think it's a bad idea and I think it's a bad idea, and by my count that means two-thirds of us—a majority—think it's a bad idea. Maybe Hawke just needs to figure that part out for herself."

"And I do _understand_ your concern," she told them both. "Truly, I do. And believe me when I say I've thought this over carefully and have given the matter all due consideration. I promise you both, I will proceed with _caution._"

Shrugging, Varric looked up at Isabela. "See? Best you can do is save up your _I told you sos_ till you need them."

Isabela glared at Amelle, bare arms crossed over her chest. "Yes, I'm sure they'll be all the sweeter for my having waited."

"I really do love how _supportive_ you both are," Amelle grumbled. They were now inescapably _past_ the dressmaker's and as Amelle pushed into the general store, she let out an annoyed sigh. "Really, it warms my heart."

"And speaking of hearts and the chests they beat in, how's Broody?" Varric asked, following her into the shop.

"No more… repeat performances, I hope?" Isabela added.

"No repeat performances," she said, shaking her head.

"He ever give you any decent explanation for any of that?" Varric asked, his expression saying all too clearly, _because he sure as the Void should have._

"It's something to do with his tattoos. Beyond that, he was confused and disoriented, and I haven't got any reason to believe he'll try it again."

Varric shot her a skeptical glance. "And you believe him?"

She thought about it, and nodded slowly. "You know, I… I do believe him. He's been… well, not _friendly,_ but he's been civil since our little altercation. In any case, I don't expect he'll be hanging around too much longer—he's recovering well." Amelle frowned a little. "Quickly, too."

"I can think of worse things, considering the shape he was in when we found him," remarked Varric. "You figure he's going to be a fixture at your place for much longer?"

Amelle shrugged, placing her order for flasks and jars—it was a quick errand; much like the case with the apothecary, Amelle had a standing order at the general store as well—and then lingered over the display of sweets. "It depends on him. He's free to stay or go as he sees fit." She shrugged, looking longingly at the giant glass jar of candied ginger. "He's said he feels he needs to repay me—" here Amelle stopped short and shot Isabela a glare before she could open her mouth "—which may mean he'll stay long enough to help with the planting."

"Oh, do you think he'll _man the plow?_" Isabela asked.

Amelle tried very hard not to sigh, and then indulged in a small bag of candied ginger, handing over the coin for it and popping a piece into her mouth before tucking the bag away in her purse. She bit down, letting the candy's hot-sweet tang dissolve upon her tongue. "I am not dignifying that remark with a reply of any sort, Isabela" she said, nodding her goodbye at the shopkeeper and bustling out the door before Isabela could say anything else.

Which she did, in very short order.

"What, don't want him to," and here she paused deliberately—to say nothing of dramatically—her grin positively salacious, "_plow your field?_"

This time Amelle did sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

Once Hawke had left, Fenris pulled on his boots and began the trek downstairs, noting every twinge that shot up from his legs with each step. He gripped the bannister a little more tightly and took particular care as he moved. His right leg was more recovered than the left, it seemed, though he took care not to favor the left overmuch. As he made his way carefully downstairs, he took in the house. There were four bedrooms on the second floor, the narrow stairway he was currently maneuvering leading down to the ground floor. To one side, a sitting room with a large fireplace, and a kitchen on the other—a quick glance in the latter revealed it to be empty for the moment, but its absent occupant was clearly in the middle of a vast undertaking; ingredients of all kinds were laid out upon a long table set just in front of the windows overlooking a garden in the back. Other doors to other parts of the house were shut tight, but Fenris' only desire was to find his way out and to wherever the horses were kept.

He gave the screen door a push, its hinges protesting with a long creak as it opened, and he stepped out onto the spacious front porch. The day was bright enough already that the covered area offered little refuge from the sun creeping ever higher in the sky; it sent its glow across the wooden planks beneath his feet, casting long shadows that would grow shorter as the day wore on. Admittedly, he felt a bit strange walking about when he hadn't met a single soul beyond Hawke, and she wasn't even there. But, he reasoned, she wouldn't have encouraged him to get out of the house if she hadn't told any of its other inhabitants of his presence.

Then again, it was entirely possible she'd done precisely _that_ and simply had a sadistic sense of humor into the bargain.

Lifting a hand to shade his eyes, Fenris stepped down off the porch, casting about a moment. He spied a large barn, a smaller building that was likely a chicken coop, and several other structures of varying size that could have served any number of purposes from feed shed to equipment storage. It was the barn he was interested in; as he drew closer, the snorts and nickers he heard from within were unmistakably horse-like, and he quickened his steps as much as he was able.

There was a young man in the shade the large building supplied, repairing a plow; inside, Fenris caught sight of a young woman—Merrill, he assumed—nimbly climbing the ladder up to the hayloft.

"Look out below!" her voice rang out after a moment. Shortly thereafter, a bale of hay was tossed down, landing with a crunch as dust and seeds and bits and pieces of hay flew out and upward, the golden sunlight catching each and every speck and mote.

Fenris stepped wide, with one eye trained on the loft for any more falling bales, and quickly found Agrippa. She was chewing placidly on a mouthful of hay, and the only indication she gave that she was happy to see him was a slight pricking-forward of her ears. Running one hand down her long snout, he took a closer look at his mare; she was more relaxed than he could ever remember having seen her. As he rubbed her nose, Agrippa's eyes slowly shut, and she pressed against his hand, turning her head to nuzzle his palm.

"I haven't any sugar for you," he murmured. Agrippa only snorted and continued nuzzling, her ministrations interspersed with the occasional nibble.

"Oh, that's the most she's perked up in _days,_" said a voice from behind. "Amelle said she was likely missing you."

Fenris turned to find the elf he was ever more certain was Merrill. Her dark, braided hair still bore bits of hay and seed, which she appeared not to mind in the least.

"You must be Fenris," she chattered sunnily. Taking a hasty moment to wipe her palm against her legs, she extended one hand, which, after a moment, he took. Her clasp was strong, and her handshake… exuberant. "I'd hate to cut your visit short, but I was just about to turn the horses out. It's a bit later than they normally go, but the plow went this morning, and it's being rather stubborn about letting itself get fixed. Tomas is working on it now—he'll probably have better luck than I did, at any rate, it's such a _heavy_ thing. I know it hardly makes any difference to the horses." A loud whinny cut through the barn. "Well," she amended. "Except for Falcon. But I think that's just because he's glad to be home. So he's a little impatient. Oh! But if you wanted to walk her down to the pasture while I get the other mares, you could do that. You know, if you wanted to visit a little longer."

In the end, he handled Agrippa and another mare, while Merrill followed with three more. It felt _good_ to walk, to stretch his stiff muscles. For all that Hawke had warned him that he'd find his repaired joints weak, he was experiencing no such weakness now. After turning the mares out to pasture, he followed Merrill back without another word and silently assisted her with the geldings and stallions—the lot of them seemed to be incredibly well-tempered, and after a few shoves and other shows of dominance, the horses—Falcon included—scattered themselves across the pasture.

With that task complete, Merrill returned to the barn while Fenris strode back to the pasture where the mares were kept. Leaning against the fence, he watched as Agrippa broke into a gallop, her pale tail streaming out behind her as she stretched her legs, muscles working and flexing beneath her pale coat, hooves pounding the soft earth in a rhythm he knew as well as his own heartbeat. Several of the other mares chewed sedately at the grass, one shouldering the other out of the way at one point, but Agrippa ran along the far side of the pasture, heedless of the others.

He envied her that, for a moment—to be able to move freely, without wariness or suspicion dogging every step. Doubtless she would evade if someone she did not know attempted to capture or steal her, but his mare knew nothing of _precaution_ and the necessity of it.

Her burst of speed expended, Agrippa gradually slowed, eventually stopping by a patch of clover, far from the other mares. Lowering her head, she tore away a mouthful of green and began to graze placidly, her tail swishing as it flicked away the occasional fly. He took in her equine contentment a moment longer before turning away and heading back to the house. His route took him past the males' pasture in time to catch sight of Falcon rolling about on his back, long legs in the air as he scratched himself. Then, as if sensing Fenris' gaze, the horse stopped, resting on his side and lifting his head, fixing dark eyes back on him. Then Falcon clambered to his feet and trotted away to the other side of the pasture, looking strangely as if his dignity had been wounded having been caught behaving so.

The sun was higher now, but the day was cool and the breeze had turned sweet and damp, carrying with it the hint of rain. No clouds yet, but Fenris had no doubt they would come. As he drew closer to the house, a woman came around the side, carrying a basket. She stopped short, startled at the sight of him, but upon _looking_ at him something not quite recognition dawned in her eyes. No, not recognition, but _understanding_. Her smile was a warm one.

"Amelle said you'd likely be up and around today. It's Mr. Fenris, isn't it?"

He coughed. "Just… Fenris will suffice, ma'am."

She smiled again and gave him a brisk nod. "All right, Fenris. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm Amelle's mother. Name's Leandra."

Though he hadn't seen any resemblance at the start, Fenris now saw… something around the older woman's eyes and the tilt of her smile that he'd seen on Hawke's face earlier. He inclined his head. "I… am grateful for your hospitality, Mrs. Hawke."

"Please, think nothing of it. It's good to know you're finally up and around—my daughter told me your injuries had been severe," she said, indicating his leg, "_and_ I'm supposed to make sure to tell you not to—"

"Overtax myself," he said, dryly, holding a hand out and tacitly offering to take the basket she carried, which she gave to him without comment. "She gave me the very same warning before her departure this morning."

"Well," she replied on a laugh, "if nothing else, Amelle is thorough." The two of them climbed the steps to the porch and when Fenris looked down, he found the basket to be heavy with strawberries. "They're the first of the season," she supplied, catching his look. "And there are few things my Amelle likes better than early strawberry pie."

"She mentioned you'd intended to make one," he said, holding the door open as Mrs. Hawke swept into the house. Though it hadn't been his intention, he trailed after her into the kitchen where she stood by the long table, took the basket from him and dumped the contents onto a thin cloth. Then, pulling a paring knife from the pocket of her apron, she began briskly hulling and quartering the strawberries, dropping the pieces into a heavy white bowl.

"Did she now?" she asked, deft fingers never slowing as the silver of the knife flashed in the morning sunlight. "I don't suppose she mentioned all the wheedling she did first, convincing me to make one."

Clearing his throat, Fenris shook his head. "I admit, she… did not."

"Imagine my surprise," the older woman said on a chuckle. She worked her way through several more strawberries before sending him a sidelong glance. "Pull up a chair and sit if you'd like. I doubt you ought to be on your feet after all that."

He hesitated long enough to feel foolish for hesitating, then pulled a chair from the other end of the table and sat down, watching Mrs. Hawke work. "I am much better than I was," he admitted.

"Amelle's always had a knack for healing," her mother said, a note of pride evident in her voice. "Lucky thing she came across you. _Bandits._ I can't imagine."

Fenris opened his mouth to correct her, then leaned back slightly in his chair, pressing his lips together after a second. That was an odd omission, but seemed a… deliberate one. Instead of correcting Mrs. Hawke, he watched her hands for a second or two before asking, hesitantly, "Is there anything I may do to… help?"

Her hands stilled and she sent him a look. "Do you know how to make a pie, Fenris?"

"Ah. No," he admitted, after a pause.

"Well," she said brightly, pushing the bowl of quartered berries in front of him, "I can think of no time like the present for someone to learn."

"…Learn?"

"To make a pie. Handy skill, you know." She handed over the small knife, its handle slapping lightly against his palm. "Never know when it's going to come in useful."

His expression, he was sure, was incredulous, but Mrs. Hawke appeared not to notice—something that made she and her daughter resemble each other all the more. Even so, anything was better than more bedrest. Still skeptical, to say nothing of _uncertain_, Fenris abandoned his seat and stood, working slowly—the knife was small in his hand, its handle strangely delicate, and the strawberries were likewise small and too easily crushed—and as he went, Hawke's mother gently corrected both his grip on the knife's handle and his treatment of the berries.

"Careful, dear—cut them too small and they'll turn to mush while the pie's baking." He adjusted accordingly, hulling and quartering while Mrs. Hawke watched, a smile hovering at her lips. "We've always had berries in the garden, and there hasn't been a single year since she was old enough to find mischief on her own that Amelle didn't manage to gorge herself on them. Strawberry season is bad, but blackberry season's worse."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then looked down again at the slowly growing pile of perfect red fruit. "Surely not now that she's older."

"Oh, you just watch her tonight with this pie. If she doesn't stuff herself sick on it, I'm Andraste herself."

Allowing himself a low chuckle, he asked, "She is your… only child, then?" Her smile faded quickly enough that he felt a burning rush of embarrassment for asking. "Forgive me, it's none of my—"

"You didn't know," she broke in. "No harm done—I… don't see how you could have known." Several beats of silence passed before she said, "Three. We had… two other children. Amelle was the oldest, and then we had the twins. Carver—it's his room you're staying in; he's up in Kirkwall now. We… lost Bethany some years back." Her voice went soft as she said, "Maker, it'll be five years this summer. Hardly seems possible."

The burning upon his cheeks doubled as the skin at the nape of his neck prickled with discomfiture at the sorrow in the older woman's voice. "I am… sorry for your loss," he managed, feeling entirely out of his depth, even as he kept his eyes on the silver blade as it sliced through tender red fruit.

"Thank you. I do appreciate it." She breathed a soft sigh, watching him work. "We all took it badly, but I'm not sure anyone took it harder than Carver. It wasn't long after that he left home to join up with the templars."

One halved berry slipped from his fingers and landed in among the quartered fruit. "Your son is a templar?" he blurted. "But…"

"But his sister's a mage?" she finished for him, lifting her brows.

He nodded, retrieving the strawberry and cutting it again as Leandra Hawke took up another paring knife and began hulling and quartering alongside him. "It's not as bad as it could be, I suppose. Carver understands the importance of family, and that's a blessing. But…" she trailed off and let out a long breath, "those two were always at loggerheads, I'm afraid. Even if Amelle wasn't a mage, Carver always got so _frustrated_ with her. Can't say as Amelle ever made it easy on him, but that's… just her way. If she made a joke, Carver accused her of never taking things seriously enough. If she took them seriously, he thought she was just being bossy. _Controlling._ Amelle would try to make nice, and Carver would lose his temper, and then Mely would try again, never realizing she was just rubbing salt in the wound. She's not a _bad_ girl, but she's… well. She's her own person, true enough. Sometimes so much so that she stubs her toe on it."

Hawke's words from the other day came floating back to him. _If I say you stay off the leg, you stay off the leg. If I say it's time for a poultice, it's time for a poultice. _Perhaps _controlling_ wasn't quite the word he'd have chosen, but she definitely had the air of authority to her, at least insofar as medicinal matters were concerned. "And they've… not spoken in five years?"

"At least," she replied on a sigh. "She's been doing this for even longer. I think Carver resented being left behind, while Amelle got to leave, traveling all over Ferelden. I'm not sure he ever realized she never particularly _wanted _it. I imagine it's probably horribly lonely—thank the Maker she's got Varric and Isabela—but it's impossible not to notice how happy she is once she comes home."

They fell silent, working companionably for a while longer, until the bowl was nearly full of vibrant fruit.

"There, now. That should be more than enough," she said, moving to retrieve a heavy glass jar of sugar and a small copper cup from the other end of the table. "Shall we move on?"

#

Amelle was thankful Varric and Isabela preferred staying in Lothering proper whenever they stopped by this way. And even though she knew it had more to do with the early mornings they kept on the farm and Isabela's strong and exceptional dislike of mornings, early or otherwise, she still… valued the time it gave her on the farm, a place where she could be _herself_—where she could remember who she was in order to be her—where she could relish and drink in this quieter, simpler life, surrounded by the place where she'd grown up. It… resettled her, centered her, and Maker knew she needed to be centered and settled before she set out and started the madness all over again.

It was a pretty mess she'd gotten herself into, she thought, kicking a rock along the hard-packed dirt as she walked home. Selling potions all over Ferelden helped pay for the extra hands that kept the farm successful and solvent, it helped pay for repairs and new equipment—coin that would have otherwise had to come from the farm itself. Now, the money the farm earned… went back into the farm.

Maybe she could stop traveling for a spell. Maybe she could stay here and make herself useful.

_Oh, that's a capital idea. Stay here and just wait for someone to notice something odd, like how your livestock never sickens. Merrill never catches anyone's curiosity because she's _Merrill_. You are not Merrill._

She couldn't stay, and she didn't want to go. And nothing at all stood a chance of changing so far as that was concerned.

Amelle chewed thoughtfully on another piece of ginger as she left the road, slowly tromping down a gently sloping hill, her steps cutting a path through the tall grass. A gust of wind rippled through the grass again and Amelle stopped and took a deep breath in, closing her eyes and tipping her face up toward the sun.

She _wanted_ to stay. She was bored with travel, bored with the same patter in every town. She was bored with crafting the same potions, over and over again. And maybe it wasn't the obvious choice if one was looking to avoid boredom, but Amelle _preferred_ life on the farm. She enjoyed watching the crops, all young and waxy and green, burst forth from the soil, or seeing a mare through her first foal, or a cow through her first calf. She enjoyed the dirt of it, the grit of it, the _honesty_ of it all.

Perhaps, she thought as wind whipped through her her lawn dress, sending her skirts rippling out behind her, not unlike the way the grass moved all around, _perhaps_ there was a compromise to be reached. Perhaps she could travel… _less._ Granted, this would mean Varric and Isabela would have to figure out how to make do without her for a time, but they'd been a team long before Amelle had made their acquaintance; she rather doubted they'd be entirely lost without her.

It was something to think about, at any rate.

_You never know,_ she thought, swinging her purse as she continued down the hill towards the farm, _maybe it'll take spending more time around this place to make me realize I'm not cut out for it at all._

Amelle poked her head briefly into the barn, calling out for Fenris, but only Merrill's head popped out over the hayloft, dark braids bouncing and swinging as she moved. "Oh! You're back early."

"A little," Amelle said, looking around, pulling her bonnet free. "Have you seen Fenris at all?"

"Only for a moment," Merrill said. "He came out for a bit to visit with Freckles—"

"Agrippa," Amelle corrected her gently, with an apologetic wince. "Her name's Agrippa."

Merrill blinked. "Creators, that's an odd name, isn't it? Freckles seems to be such a better fit for her, don't you think?"

Privately Amelle agreed, but she shrugged. "All the same, that's her name."

"Well. He came out and visited with Agrippa for a while, and he helped me turn the horses out to the pasture—it's a lovely day for it, isn't it? He was on his way back to the house when your mother came out of the garden with a basket. I don't know what she said to him—the plow handle's gone all splintery again and Tomas was so _loud_ when he was trying to smooth it out, and I was mucking out the—"

"Don't worry about it, Merrill. I just wanted to make sure out guest didn't overtax himself."

Merrill tilted her head a moment, looking perplexed, even as the blood continued to rush to her head, turning her cheeks pink. "Your mother did give him the basket to carry, but I don't suppose that was terribly heavy."

Amelle waved up at her as she turned and started out of the barn. "Don't worry about it, I'll see what she's up to."

The path up from the barn approached the house on the side, and as she drew closer she heard the familiar timbre of her mother's voice and saw a flash blue as she walked by one of the kitchen windows. Tilting her head, Amelle moved even closer to the nearest kitchen window until she could make out what her mother was saying.

Amelle angled herself to get a better look into the kitchen. What she saw, though, made her stop and _stare._ Her mother and, Maker help her, _Fenris,_ were standing side by side at the worktable overlooking the back garden. A pile of strawberries, all red and glistening and perfectly delicious looking, were in front of them, and Fenris held in his hand one of Mama's deadly-sharp paring knives. Mama held the other, and together they were hulling and cutting strawberries, dropping the pieces in the low, wide bowl Mama always used.

They were making a _pie. _It was, far and away, the damnedest thing she'd ever seen. Once the berries were hulled and quartered, Mama nudged the bowl in front of Fenris and swept to the other end of the table, gathering the sugar and a few other ingredients before handing over a spoon and measuring cup.

"There, now. That's more than enough," she said. "Shall we move on?"

Fenris' answer was in the affirmative, though he looked wary as hell about it. Amelle pressed fingers to her lips to stifle a chuckle.

They worked in silence a few minutes longer. "Be careful with the sugar, dear," she said, shaking her head. "The early berries are still a hair tart, but that's part of their charm. Don't want to bury that bite under too much sweet."

At her mother's gentle admonition, Fenris' brow furrowed in either concentration or frustration—she couldn't tell—but with a much lighter hand he scattered spoonfuls of sugar over the berries. Mama talked him through several more steps, all of which Fenris followed, his expression one of such _intense_ concentration, she could scarcely believe he was making a _pie. _A _pie._

Tamping down on her laughter, Amelle stomped her way up onto the porch, making even more noise than she might have done ordinarily, and pushed open the screen door.

"Maker's breath, Mama," she said genially, leaning in the doorway and watching them, her bonnet swinging lazily from its ribbons, "Fenris is supposed to be _recovering._ Not baking _pies._"

At the sound of her voice, Fenris' shoulders went strangely rigid and he turned, his expression patently neutral. "It was no trouble," he said, stiffly.

"You should consider yourself lucky," she told him with a grin. "Mama's strawberry pie is the best from here to Highever. She doesn't let just anyone in on the recipe."

"Now, Amelle," her mother began, somewhat reproachfully, "your guest looked a bit at loose ends—"

"So you thought you'd teach him to _bake_," interrupted Amelle with a playful grin.

"—And," Mama went on, blithely ignoring her, "very gallantly offered to help."

Fenris looked uncomfortable, and Amelle wondered if it was being called _gallant_ that did it. Her own smile warmed to one far less teasing. "I'm not quite sure standing for so long is any better for your legs than a walk into town would have been. How are you feeling?"

"Much improved," he replied, inclining his head. "…Thank you."

Any surprise Amelle might've felt at the fact Fenris was _thanking_ her was soon overshadowed when her mother said, "And don't be silly, Mely—I had Mister Fenris _sit _at first. He's not been on his feet terribly long now." Then she added, on a laugh, "Maker, what kind of slavedriver do you take me for?"

Amelle's smile froze as Fenris' expression went strangely blank.

"Well," Amelle said, her bright tone sounding forced to her ears as she crossed the room, resting a hand on Fenris' uninjured shoulder, "if you're feeling so much improved, perhaps you'll introduce me properly to Agrippa. She looked fit to bite me when I was calling her Freckles."

"I… yes," came his halting reply.

"I assume you can part with your assistant for a short while, Mama?" Amelle asked. At Mama's "Of course, darling," Amelle took Fenris' arm in hers and carefully, but quickly, steered him out of the kitchen and out of the house.

"She didn't know," Amelle finally explained in a low tone, once they were halfway out to the pasture. The clouds above were thickening and the wind had begun to pick up. Not enough to think about pulling the horses in just yet, but enough to know things could turn that way. "We told her you were overrun by bandits."

"You didn't want your mother knowing you aided a slave?" he asked, an edge to his voice.

Amelle's steps came to an abrupt stop as she spun on her heel to face Fenris. "Don't be an idiot," she said shortly. Fenris shot her a sharp glare and Amelle went on to explain. "My mother worries enough. And slavers are an entirely different kind of danger from what one typically meets up with on the road. Bandits are more… common, by comparison. It had nothing to do with you." His glower subsided, a little. "Besides," she went on, "bandits are just men looking to take what doesn't belong to them. Same could be said about slavers."

The glower subsided just a little more. "Neither did you tell her about—"

"About that little stunt after you woke up?" she asked, keeping her voice down. "No, I did not. I took you at your word and so far you haven't given me reason to regret doing that."

"And I will not."

"Then as far as I see it, the subject's closed."

Something about her words appeared to surprise Fenris, and for just a sliver of a second, he looked like he was of a mind to argue with her. But instead he simply shook his head and they began walking again. It wasn't long before they reached the pasture, where Agrippa still stood apart from the other mares, and looking none too bothered by the solitude.

"She's a lovely animal," Amelle said, resting her arms on the fencing.

"It was not always so," he replied quietly, echoing her stance. "She is mine only because I paid for her what her previous owner would have received from the glue factory." At Amelle's curious look, he shrugged. "I had just arrived in Ferelden and was acutely aware of the fact that I would need reliable transportation. Her owner was a merchant who claimed her to be intractable and unsafe—she kicked, or so he said. I offered what coin I could for her and he accepted."

"And?"

"And I suspect she simply didn't like him," he replied with a shrug and something close enough to a smile that Amelle found herself enjoying that particular expression. It did pleasant things to his face, even if it didn't last half as long as she might've liked.

"I suppose that's why they call it horse-sense."

They watched the horses in silence for a few minutes before Fenris sent Amelle a sidelong glance. "Did you find all you required in town?"

"All and a little bit more," she said. Her purse still hung from her wrist and she pulled out the small paper sack holding the candied ginger, offering him some. Though Fenris looked surprised, he took a piece of the candy. Amelle dug a piece out for herself and chewed contemplatively. "I expect I'll have to make a few more trips in the coming days," she told him, rolling the sweet around in her mouth.

"Is that an invitation?"

She smiled. "A _tentative_ one. Let's see how my repairs hold up first."


	6. Chapter 6

"And over there's Star and Annie and Gwen, and that's Lady, our broodmare," Hawke said, indicating a stately bay mare with a blaze of white upon its forehead and two white stockings up its front legs. "She had Annie and Falcon—and another male, but he went up to the Perkins' place. His temperament was a bit off."

"How so?"

"He was a really nasty biter," she explained, turning around and leaning back against the fence, elbows braced upon the topmost board. Her expression turned inscrutable for a moment, but she smoothed it away. "He… wasn't good fit here, but he was sound, and aside from a few… sensitivities, he was a solid animal. This farm wasn't the right place for him, but the Perkinses love him, and he's a good fit up there."

"Do you find that to be the case often?" Fenris asked. A distant ache began thrumming up from his knee and he lifted one booted foot to rest it upon one of the fence's lower planks.

"What do you mean?"

"Location being fundamental to happiness."

Looking around them a moment, Hawke smiled a small, sad smile. "Absolutely. In people and animals both."

Noting her expression, Fenris thought back to his conversation with the elder Hawke. "In yourself, then?"

His words had startled her—surprised her, at the very least. Hawke blinked several times before turning her head to regard him for a long moment, wavering between wariness and puzzlement. "There are some places I'm happier than others," she replied slowly. Green eyes focused a moment on the middle distance before lifting to meet his gaze again. "How're you doing?"

He considered a falsehood, then shrugged. "My injuries are… reminding me of their presence, but the discomfort is quite tolerable."

That wary, puzzled look vanished beneath a crooked grin. "You _really_ don't want to go back to the house, do you?"

He conceded this with a grimace. "I am unaccustomed to such inactivity."

"Perhaps a turn about the farm, then," she said, pushing off the fence and brushing her hands down the front of her dress. "A little tour."

"Very well," he replied, stepping away from the fence and joining her.

Hawke held both hands behind her back as they walked, a small purse bouncing gently with the movement. She led him past the other pasture, where the stallion and geldings were kept. "I assume you've met Falcon," she said, indicating her horse currently standing in the shade of an ancient, gnarled oak tree, scratching his back against its bark. "The stallion's Horace, and then there's Possum, the grey one right over there's, um… well, Warden. Then there's Maric, Remigold—but we call him Remy—and Bill." There must have been something she saw in his expression, because she went on to explain, "Bill, Warden, and Possum are the plow horses. Good to have alternates in case someone throws a shoe or goes lame or colicky. Remigold is Mama's horse, and I'm sure you'll not find a more spoiled beast anywhere. Maric was my brother's."

"Your… brother, whose room I am currently using."

"Yes," she said, her tone growing short. "Carver." He didn't say anything more, and in the silence Hawke sent him a look from the corner of her eye. "Mother told you about Carver."

"Only that he is a templar in Kirkwall."

Hawke nodded once, lips pressed together in a line. "You'll forgive me if I don't elaborate on that?"

"Of course."

"Good." She took a deep, bracing breath, and let it out through her teeth. They were just past the pastures and heading towards some of the stone outbuildings. "And here we've got the well, the very exciting chicken coop, and the equally as thrilling feed shed." As they walked by, soft clucking came from the coop and the air was heavy with the scent of hay.

"They… are stone," Fenris observed, frowning up at the structures. Hawke nodded. "Is that not an odd choice?"

"When Daddy—when my father bought the land, it had a great deal of rock in the soil. This was long before I was born, but evidently he got the land for a song, and that was only because of how damned rocky the dirt was."

"This… all came from…"

She shrugged one shoulder, though Hawke's expression wasn't the least bit repentant. "Daddy was a mage too. He was just a bit more adept at earth magic than I am, or ever was. He worked the rock out of the earth and made good use of it. The house and the barn are the only wooden buildings on the property, mainly because they got built first. Even the wall along the property line's made of stone." There was no denying the note of pride in her voice, the secretive whisper of a smile at her lips as she rested one hand against the well's ledge. "He built it all from the ground up." The smile went crooked. "Literally."

It was not wasted on Fenris that Hawke spoke of her father in the past tense. But she didn't volunteer any additional information, and he did not ask. They went on past various outbuildings, past a field Hawke indicated would be plowed eventually—preferably sooner than later.

"I ought to have seen about a new plow last time I was in town, but Merrill said Tomas was sure he could fix it." She kicked a rough pebble and sighed. "Not looking like that's the case, though."

"Is it a problem?"

"Only as far as wanting to get the planting done before the rainy season hits its stride. There's no chore on the Maker's green earth that rain makes more pleasant."

"What is it that needs to be done?"

She sent him a curious look. "Not many farms where you're from, then?"

"None that I had any direct exposure to."

"Fair enough."

She explained the process to him—plowing and seeding one field while letting the other lay fallow—smiling, even as she outlined what sounded like a particularly labor-intensive process. Fenris settled into silence afterward, as Hawke led him further past the fields, where the land lifted and swelled into rolling hills. They stood upon one such hill and Fenris looked out at the space stretching out before him. A large yew tree, its limbs stretching out and up, stood sentry by a pond, an ages-old rope dangling from a bough. He could see, in the distance, the stone wall Hawke had described earlier. He'd never known skies so clear, so unobstructed by buildings; he'd never heard such _peace._ The air smelled clean, and for a moment, a bare, tiny sliver of a moment, something in him lifted, and he knew how Agrippa must have felt, running through the pasture.

But then, with a breath, the sensation dissipated, reality sinking in once more.

"It is not a small parcel of land, then," he observed. Hawke shook her head.

"He got it on the cheap," she said with a shrug. "Because of the rocky soil. You saw what he did about _that._ From what they both used to tell me, the whole piece used to be just as hilly as this. Daddy worked out the rocks and graded the land. He had plans, even then." Her mouth twisted into a bitter line that she tried to force into a smile, but the attempt was hardly successful. "Then he died."

"I am sorry for your loss."

She shook her head. "It was some years ago now." But the sorrow in her voice told another story.

"Even so, you have my condolences."

After a long pause, she finally nodded. "Thank you." Then she sent a glance his way and asked, "How are you holding up?"

In truth, as much as he'd enjoyed the exercise, the sites of his injuries had begun a slow, dull throb. When he shared this with Hawke, she nodded, unsurprised, then lowered herself to the grass, her white skirts spread out on the grass like the last patch of snow in spring. When he did not join her, she looked up with a crooked smile, and patted the spot next to him.

"Not the most glamorous spot to rest your aching bones, I confess, but the view's not bad."

After a moment more, he sat, unable to hide his relief when the pressure on his left knee was alleviated. Hawke's look was a knowing one and he shook his head at the unspoken accusation. "I have not overtaxed myself. And, as you can see, I am taking your advice."

"I see that." She shifted onto one hip and placed her hands over the aching joint. "This one's the worst off right now, isn't it?" At his nod, she drew in a breath, concentrating on the spot until her hands glowed blue-white. In what felt like no time at all, the ache subsided and Fenris let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Without another word, she turned her attention to the other knee, and then, indicating he should lie back, Hawke pushed up onto her knees in order to see to his hip. The hot-cold threads of healing light sunk down into the damaged bone and muscle as the sunlight poured down on them both, as wind rustled through the yew tree—through all the trees—rippling the surface of the pond.

"All done," Hawke said finally, shaking her fingers out. "Better?"

"It is," Fenris answered, still sprawled back, blades of grass tickling his neck and ears.

"We'll rest here a spell," she told him, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, looking out at the land spread out before them. "Then head back."

He nodded, and stared up at the clouds, realizing he could not remember the last time he'd done such a thing. After the hiss of wind whipping through the grass nearly sent him into a doze three separate times, Fenris propped himself onto his elbows and addressed Hawke.

"Yes?" Her gaze never wavered from the expanse of green.

"You have… lived here your entire life?"

"I have," she said.

He tried to imagine such a thing. He couldn't.

When Hawke looked over, she read something in his expression. "What is it?"

"Your farm… appears prosperous. And yet you—"

"Travel the countryside, hawking my wares?" Her brows quirked together and she let out a soft laugh. "Oh, that's a good one. I haven't used that one before."

"It is a fair question," he said.

"And it's one that if I don't answer," she drawled, "Mama might answer _for_ me next pie you help her bake."

"Hawke," he said, sitting up further, affronted, "you are not accusing me of manipulating—"

"Oh, Maker, no," she said, with a vehement shake of her head. "No, but Mama does enjoy talking with company. One of the reasons Varric adores her so." Having mollified him, she went on. "My father died when I was sixteen or thereabouts. Carver and Bethany were just thirteen—Bethany'd just come into her magic a couple years before."

"Your sister—"

"Hell of an argument against anyone who says magic isn't in the family." Her expression hardened as she stared into the middle distance. "Daddy taught her what he could in the time he had. I taught her what _I_ could—" Her throat closed, cutting the words off sharply. Hawke swallowed hard and bit her lip.

"Your mother… said your sister had died."

Allowing herself a brief, terse nod, Hawke closed her eyes, taking a moment to collect herself. "I taught her what I could. We all worked on the farm, the four of us. But…" She combed her fingers through the grass, running her hand back and forth, over and over again. Finally she plucked a long, green blade and began shredding it into thin ribbons. "But it became evident to me that we needed more help. We needed stronger backs. Repairs. Equipment. A whole lot of things we couldn't afford. I was about eighteen then. A fair hand with potions."

"And you left."

Hawke shrugged. "It wasn't easy, leaving them. Leaving Bethany, especially—I had… I had so much I wanted to teach her. But it seemed like what I had to do, at the time. Being out on my own wasn't easy, either. Thank the Maker I met Varric and Isabela when I did, or I might've wound up lying in a ditch somewhere. Eventually I started making a name for myself." She dropped what remained of the grass and brushed her hands off. It seemed an eternity stretched out before she spoke. "And then…" A muscle in her jaw flexed and her throat moved as she swallowed hard again. "And then, she was gone. And all of my reasons, which had seemed very good at the time…"

"You regret them."

"I did what I thought was best." The words were dull and hollow, as if Hawke had spoken them to herself countless times before. It was possible she had. "Now… well. The money's good, no doubt about that. And it helps. The farm's been profitable these last few seasons, and that's one less thing Mama has to worry about. And if her mage daughter isn't around to draw attention from unwanted parties, that's just another thing she doesn't have to worry about."

"You have said yourself she worries about you while you are gone."

Hawke didn't reply, but the way her shoulders stiffened and then slumped minutely spoke volumes. "I'm doing the best I can. If the farm's profitable, then Mama will be taken care of if I'm ever… caught. And if I move from town to town, that's less time for me to attract the attention that will get me caught."

"You mentioned there were… other measures you took as well," he said, watching the clouds grow a dark and thick blue-grey on the horizon. The wind had picked up and turned cool, carrying with it the scent of rain.

Her smile was a mirthless one. "More and more every day, it seems."

Hawke appeared to be… struggling with something, but before Fenris could either ask her to elaborate, she opened the drawstring purse that still hung from her wrist. Inside, he saw the small bag of candied ginger she'd offered to him earlier—she pulled it out now—but there, also nestled in the small bag, was a brown paper packet.

She read the question written across his face. "It's the ingredients for magebane," she told him, warily.

"Magebane," he echoed.

"I'm going to assume you know what that is?"

"Of course I do." He nodded at the packet. "It is illegal in Tevinter."

"Imagine my surprise," she murmured, running her finger along the packet's edge before pulling the bag shut again. She offered him a candy, which he took—he rather enjoyed the spicy-sweet taste as it dissolved on his tongue—and then helped herself to one, talking as she slowly chewed. "I've been having trouble keeping a cap on my abilities. For a long time now, thoroughly draining myself was enough. Healing someone until I was ready to drop with the effort would… keep my mana levels low."

"Yes, you have told me as much."

Hawke's brow creased with annoyance. "I've been recovering more quickly."

Fenris arched an eyebrow at her. "Forgive me, that does not seem the sort of thing a mage would… complain about."

"Mages who don't care about staying well-hidden, maybe," came her pert retort. "I'm not one of those. Anyway, I'd been tossing around an idea during the last leg of my travels, and I finally got the chance to lay hands on the ingredients."

"And that idea involves magebane."

"A tincture of it," she explained. "To keep me undetectable."

"Undetectable, perhaps," he murmured, "but… defenseless as well."

Her own eyebrow shot upwards. "That's hardly an argument I'd have expected you to make."

"But true all the same." She gave an exasperated huff and Fenris shook his head. "Do not misunderstand me. Your intent to control your powers is… commendable. And as long as you have other means of defending yourself…"

"Hmph. I happen to be more than a fair shot with a revolver, I'll have you know."

He shrugged and said, "Then I cannot see any problem with this idea of yours."

Exasperation melted away into surprise, as she looked at him, and then a tiny smile kicked up at the corner of her mouth. "You… don't think I'm an idiot?"

"You are… trying to keep yourself safe," he reasoned. "Provided you _are_ _careful_ with this tincture…"

"Maker," she sighed, tipping her head back and addressing the darkening skies, the wind ruffling her hair across her forehead. "It's _so nice_ not to have someone look at me like I'm somehow deficient for wanting to try this."

"Your other companions?" he asked. When Hawke nodded, Fenris felt a tiny pull of concern—the dwarf and the woman clearly knew Hawke better than he. What else did they know, if they were concerned with Hawke's intent in this case?

"Isabela swears I'm making a mistake. And she does know her poisons, I'll give her that. But I'm _so sure _about this. And I will be careful." She sighed. "It's all… rather complicated, I'm afraid."

"It is not so very complicated," he replied. "The choice to do what you feel is best for someone else…seldom reaps pleasant benefits." He paused. "Though I am curious. You remain away from home because you are concerned with implicating your mother should you be… discovered. And yet you have a mage in your employ."

"Correction, we have a Dalish in our employ. Merrill… is a unique case—nobody looks twice at her. After Bethany— after that, when I had to leave again, I went into town to see about finding some extra help. Merrill had left her clan, and had been wandering, trying to find work, but kept getting doors slammed in her face. She needed work, and we needed someone who _could_ work. She said she was good with animals, which was exactly what I was looking for anyway, so I gave her a chance. And thank the Maker I did, because Mama positively adores that girl."

Fenris turned that over in his mind for a moment and something in his face made Hawke chuckle.

"You've met her, so you've already figured out she's a little scatterbrained. But she's got a good heart. And she's a dream with the animals. My mother just loves to dote on her."

The blue-grey blanket above rolled closer and spread out, slowly eating up the sky as the smaller, puffy white clouds joined the mass. Hawke let out a resigned sigh as the first drops splashed down, chilly wet pinpricks, then pushed herself to her feet and offered Fenris her hand; he clasped it and she tugged him upright. "I think that's our cue, don't you?"

Fenris cast a glance behind them, noting the distance back to the farmhouse and the pastures where the horses still grazed or played or lay in the grass. "Will they need to be brought in?"

Hawke shook her head. "Not unless the winds get too unbearable, or if there's lightning. Otherwise, we'll bring them in after dinner. Most of them love being out in the rain." A fond grin tugged at her lips as she said, "Falcon usually makes a muddy mess of himself."

"He is… of a unique temperament," Fenris observed as they walked back down the hill, towards the house.

"That's probably the most polite way I've heard it phrased."

The rain picked up quickly, and was falling in a steady, soaking sheet long before they reached the house. Hawke let out a distressed yelp and grabbed Fenris' wrist, tugging him as she hefted her skirts with her other hand and began running for the porch. His initial urge was to pull away from her grasp—the magic in her made his lyrium brands jump and spark beneath his skin, even when she _wasn't_ actively healing him—but the warmth and strength in her slender fingers pushed through the uncomfortable jolt and he increased his own pace to match hers.

"Does this not count as overtaxing myself?" he asked above the rush of rain.

"It might," she called back, then swore as she plunged through a puddle. "Good thing you know a healer!"

They pounded up the porch steps, and once sheltered from the rain, Hawke released her grip, first checking in her purse to make sure the apothecary's packet was still dry before plucking at the damp dress and pushing her streaming hair away from her face, making annoyed noises. Fenris looked down at his own wet clothing in consternation.

"If you need to, you can borrow one of my brother's shirts," Hawke said, catching his look. "I'm sure we've still got some of his things packed away."

When Fenris glanced up from himself to reply, he turned his gaze sharply away again. The pale, thin material of Hawke's gown was soaked through, the bodice hiding very little as it clung. "That would be very helpful," he said stiffly, staring nowhere but straight ahead of him into the grey downpour.

"Fenris—?"

But whatever question Hawke might have asked was cut off as the door swung open and both Mrs. Hawke and Merrill hurried out, the former with towels in her arms. "Maker's breath, you two! You're soaked straight through!" She bustled forward, handing them both towels; Fenris ran his over his head, and by the time he pulled it away, he was gratified to find Hawke had wrapped hers about her shoulders.

"My thanks," he said, inclining his head.

"Thank you, Mama," Hawke added, with a rueful smile. "That one came on quick."

"Oh, not as quick as all that," Merrill chirped. "I thought those clouds would take _forever_ to get here. We had time to shut up the barn and all the outbuildings. You'd have had to be paying no attention at _all_ to miss—"

"Merrill," Hawke broke in, and Fenris noted there was a flush growing at her cheeks.

"Yes?"

"Shush, please."

#

Amelle kept an eye on the storm outside; though the rain hadn't ceased, and in fact seemed to fall _harder,_ the winds were tolerable and so far there'd been thunder, but no lightning yet, and that was a mercy. Still, the horses _would_ have to come in for the night. It was probably too much to hope for that the rain would move on by then. It'd be a greater miracle if they weren't socked in for a week of damp, soggy weather.

Indoors, however, everything was bright and warm, and the bone-deep chill of her sodden dress turned into a distant memory as they sat down to a thick, hearty stew, riddled with beef and carrots and potatoes, heady with the scent of thyme and rosemary. Mama's biscuits were impossibly soft and buttery—every bite dissolved on her tongue, and it was a true feat not to gorge herself. It was only the promise of pie that kept her from stuffing herself silly on biscuits, and even then just barely.

Fenris, though he'd slid into customary silence after they'd come in from the storm, also seemed to enjoy dinner, giving Mama solemn compliments on every part of the meal. Whether it had been their conversation on the hilltop or her mother's warm smile at Fenris' words, Amelle was reminded of happier times, when the house had been full to bursting with laughter, warmth and magic. Daddy had been cautious, certainly, but never _afraid_ of his powers, and he'd instilled that respect for power in both Amelle and Bethany. It hadn't been until Amelle saw her mother lose Daddy, then Bethany, and finally Carver that she felt caution edging into fear. Not fear of her powers, no, but fear she might be found out. She couldn't—_wouldn't_—do that to her mother, who'd already lost so much.

When Mama set down the strawberry pie, Amelle's mouth watered. The crust was perfectly domed and golden, granules of sugar giving the crust a nubby crystalized texture. The strawberries inside were vibrantly red, and as she took the small plate bearing her piece, Amelle had to remind herself that they had company and company meant she probably ought to use a _fork._

She was only halfway through her second piece, pushing the tines of her fork through the gloriously flaky crust and into a plump piece of strawberry, when her mother said something that made Amelle's hand go still, her fork lodged in her dessert.

"I was hoping we could talk, darling, about Carver."

Amelle blinked at her plate, hating the way tension began crawling up her spine, tightening her shoulders. She swallowed once—it was just _wrong_ how dry her mouth had become—and looked up, forcing her voice to lightness. "What about him?"

And _why_ in the name of Andraste's saggy britches was Mama bringing Carver up _now?_

"Well," Mama said, setting down her own fork and smoothing her hands across the plain tablecloth, "something… occurred to me, these last few weeks you were gone."

"Oh?" She swallowed again, glancing quickly at Fenris and Merrill from the corner of her eye. Fenris appeared puzzled, but Merrill looked positively shamefaced. _Oh, dear._ "And what's that?"

Mama sent Amelle a somewhat pointed look. "It's been five years."

"It has."

"And," she went on, "it seems to me that since you already travel so much—"

Amelle's heart began pounding harder.

"—You might consider expanding, as it were. To Kirkwall."

"To Kirkwall," she echoed weakly. _Why, Mama? Why are we talking about this now? Why here? Why now?_

Mama's fingers plucked at the tablecloth, then smoothed out the wrinkles, the only indication she was at all nervous about the topic of conversation. "I want you to talk to Carver, Amelle," she said quietly. "You've both gone long enough without speaking."

"Mama—"

"I know it was horrid when he left, and I know what I'm asking you to do is difficult."

Amelle's stomach, so full of pie, lurched uncomfortably. She swallowed again, but said nothing.

"I'm not getting any younger—"

_"Mama—" _

"And he's the only family you'll have left after I'm gone," she said, firmly, lifting her chin and fixing Amelle with an unyielding blue gaze. "Five years is long enough—far too long for you both to go without any sort of reconciliation between you. Please, just consider—"

The chair scraped loudly across the floor as Amelle stood.

"Amelle?"

"Sorry. Sorry, I—I need to… I need to bring the horses in," she stammered, taking a step away from the table, another step out of the kitchen and towards the door. "I'll be right back," she called out over her shoulder before disappearing out the front door, hearing the screen slam in the wet darkness as she made a beeline for the barn.

Everything was swathed in dark grey, the rain making the world even darker and wetter than the twilight Amelle knew it to be. She was soaked to the bone—_again_—by the time she laid hands on the barn door, yanking hard on it until it pulled open. She hurried inside, greeted a chorus of bleating goats and sheep dismayed by the storm, and called forth mana enough that a globe of blue light swirled to life in her palm, quickly engulfing her hand. Surrounded by the eerie light, Amelle strove to calm the erratic tattoo of her thundering heart; she gathered an armful of lead-ropes from hooks and spun around on her heel, only to find Fenris coming into the barn after her, a lantern held in one hand.

"Hawke, your mother—" He stopped short at the sight of her, and she realized, healing sessions aside, Fenris had never really _seen_ her giving a full display of magic. Oops. She opted not to let her flame gutter out; he knew she was a mage, he could deal with it, or he could _not_ deal with it. At the moment, she wasn't of a mind to care either way.

"Maker," she breathed shakily, "please do _not_ tell me she sent you out here."

"She did not. She would have come herself, in fact." When Amelle leaned heavily against a support beam, he took a step closer. "Are you… well?"

"No," she admitted, looking wearily at the blue ball of light. She flicked her wrist and let it die. "No, I don't think I am." Amelle gnawed on her lip until she the sharp taste of blood met her tongue. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, sending a tiny flash of healing mana to her lip and trying to _calm down_. "This part's probably obvious, but I _really_ don't want to to talk to my brother."

"You don't wish to… to reconcile?" he asked carefully—carefully enough that Amelle was nearly sure Fenris didn't know the details. She didn't answer, mostly because she didn't know _how_ to answer, and it was at that point Fenris took several steps closer, peering at her face with something uncomfortably like recognition. "No," he said quietly. "It is nothing to do with your wants." Another pause, and Amelle truly didn't want to hear what he had to say. "You are afraid."

Damn it, why did he have to be _right?_

"It is true, is it not?"

Amelle licked her lips, searching for something, some explanation, some _defense._ "Fenris…" But what could she say? What could she tell him? She had no obligation to tell him _anything,_ and yet… he'd come out here, through the rain, looking for her. Maybe that counted for something.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Is it because he is a templar?"

"No," came her tired reply. "Well. Not… not completely."

It was a strange moment then, in the seconds that followed her words. He could have asked. She _expected_ him to ask her to elaborate, even as she braced herself against a barrage of questions… that did not come.

"It is your own affair," he said quietly. "Come. I will assist you in collecting the—"

"He hates me," she blurted, her throat closing up on the last word. She swallowed hard against the lump, but it wouldn't budge. She took a deep breath and tried again. "My brother hates me."

Fenris said nothing right away. Then, "Your mother does not seem to believe that."

"Because she doesn't know." Her back still pressed against the beam, Amelle sunk to the ground, but Fenris didn't move, not an inch. He simply held the lantern and watched her, waiting.

After an eternity of indecision, Amelle took the end of one lead rope in her fingers, playing with the frayed knot. "He blames me for Bethany's death." She sucked in a breath and held it. "And I'm not sure I disagree with him on that score."

Never coming any closer, Fenris sunk to one knee and set the lantern down. "You told me you were not home when your sister…"

"Was thrown from a horse," she finished, bleakly. "Bethany—we… animals don't… always like us. Mages. Or… well, prey animals, I think. I think it's instinct in… in prey or herd animals not to… to _trust_ the… whatever it is they sense in us."

"You ride a horse."

"Falcon's known me since he was born. Daddy knew it was the only way he'd accept me. Bethany had a horse too—Annie, the mare. Falcon's sister. But Annie was colicky, and Carver was seeing to her. So Bethany thought… thought she'd just ride another of the horses." She breathed in, but the sound was too much like a sob, and it was at that point Amelle realized her eyes were burning and her cheeks were wet with tears. "Falcon and Annie's brother. Marius. The gelding up at the Perkins' farm."

"The biter."

Amelle gave a miserable nod. "Biting wasn't his only bad habit." Scrubbing a hand across one cheek and then the other, she looked up at Fenris. "She saddled him up and took him out. The way I hear it, Marius was prancing and pawing at the ground from the start. Bethy figured it was nerves. She figured if she could ride Annie, and I could ride Falcon, and they were so alike in temperament… then she could ride Marius."

"But it was not so."

"He threw her. I know the fall broke her back. That's… that's all I know for sure. I… I was told she couldn't feel her legs. But there was something else wrong, something worse. She— I was on my way home, but… there was a storm. Delayed me." Letting the lead ropes slide free, Amelle wrapped her arms around herself. "I didn't know. I'd have hurried if I'd only known, but—"

"Was there any way you _could_ have known?" he asked, an edge to his voice.

Amelle only shook her head, tears coming too hard and fast now for her to hope they might stop anytime soon. "But if I'd got home a day earlier," she insisted around a choking sob, "if I'd pushed through the rain, I could've _fixed_ it. I could've _healed_ her. Bethany wasn't a healer. She couldn't— If I'd come home _on time,_ I'd've been able to yank her backside away from that horse before the fool thought had even taken shape in her head. But I _didn't_. Instead, I came home to a dead sister, a broken mother, and a furious brother. They… they had a healer come down from Lothering, but… there wasn't—he couldn't fix what was wrong. They gave her laudanum to help with the pain, but _that's it._"

She was cold. She was wet and cold, and gripped with a tremble that felt as if it started at her very core. Fenris remained silent. She wondered what he was thinking, how severely he was judging her.

"Carver left the day after the funeral," she managed, rubbing furiously at her face with one sleeve. "But he told me. Before he left, he told me it was my fault. My fault for not being there in the first place. I could've stayed around, he said. I _should've_ stayed around. Not traipsed around the Maker-forsaken country…"

"Hawke."

"The worst part is, _he was right._"

"No," Fenris said, his voice low, and even, and so very steady that it made Amelle blink.

"But—"

_"No," _he said again. "We are none of us—even mages—gifted with second sight. Had you known your sister was in danger, would you have gone to her bedside?"

She stared up at him, dumbfounded. "Of course."

"Had you remained at the farm, as your brother claims you ought to have done, would your family have found itself in financial peril?"

After several long seconds, Amelle nodded. Reluctantly. "Yes."

"Accidents are beyond our reach, Hawke. There are occurrences in this world that can be changed, and it can be… difficult to separate those instances from true accidents. Your brother was wrong. Your sister's death was… not your fault."

"It…_ feels_ as if it were my fault," she admitted, feeling wretched about it.

"Because you have allowed yourself to believe your brother's words. But have you ever allowed yourself to consider for a moment that he may have been wrong?"

"…No."

"It is a thought worth considering." He stood, then, offering her his hand. Amelle took it and felt herself pulled easily to her feet. "But first, we must bring in the horses. The rest will keep until daylight."

Perhaps he was right, she thought as they abandoned the barn for the soaking night, boots squelching in the mud with every step towards the pasture. _Perhaps_ it was a dilemma that would look differently in the morning.

_Perhaps._

But even as Amelle and Fenris brought in the horses, even as she changed into dry clothes and slid beneath warm blankets, lulled to sleep by the rain hitting the roof, she remembered the ice in Carver's eyes the day he'd left.


	7. Chapter 7

The rain from the previous day lasted all through the night, tapering off by morning, leaving the world smelling clean. A few puffy clouds remained, dotting the sky; there were enough of them to leave open the possibility of more rain later in the day, but for now cool, damp breezes rustled the trees and grass, fluttering the curtains in the windows, and sending the scent of sweet hay throughout the barn.

Amelle had used the morning's chores as an excuse not to speak to her mother about her… _request_ (which was the politest way of putting it), carefully avoiding the subject when she finally came in for breakfast (thank the Maker for Fenris, since Mama was particularly disinclined to pursue the topic any further while he was around), and continued avoiding it by vanishing up to her little worktable in the hayloft soon thereafter. It wasn't so much that she didn't _want_ to talk about it, but that she didn't know what to _say._ And so she sat, slowly and painstakingly crafting potions, one after another after another. From somewhere outside there came the rhythmic _thwack, thwack, thwack_ of either Tomas or Kellen, Tomas' younger brother who was another of the farmhands, chopping wood, reminding Amelle she still had to go back into town and see about that new plow.

Pushing the errand out of her mind, she measured out dried roots and leaves on her little brass scales, pulverizing them with her mortar and pestle, then steeping and stoppering restoratives and tinctures and ointments, not because she particularly needed to get to work on bolstering her wares just yet, but because the work soothed her and cleared her mind, and the Maker knew she needed a clear head right now.

Carver. Mama wanted her to reconcile with _Carver._

Her gut instinct—which had yet to fail her in her twenty-six years—told her it was a bad idea for many reasons, not the least of which was the part where her brother was a _templar_ now. And not just _any_ templar—one of Meredith Stannard's men. Meredith "I always get my mage" Stannard. Meredith "the only good apostate is a dead apostate" Stannard.

It was excellent incentive to perfect the tincture of magebane, she supposed. It wouldn't do to traipse all the way to Kirkwall only to find herself jailed for her trouble.

Assuming, of course, she even _went. _She still wasn't sure about that.

Amelle blew away a sweaty lock of hair sticking stubbornly to her forehead, then carefully placed long strands of dried spindleweed on the scale, taking care _not_ to blow the whole pile of thready pieces all across the workbench. She added another several strands until the scales evened. If she didn't go, it'd mean Mama's disappointment, and that wasn't such a _terrible_ burden to bear, since she was fairly certain even Mama didn't understand what she was asking of Amelle. The best—the _very_ best case scenario involved Carver and Amelle in a teary, joyful reunion, the likelihood of which was… slim, at best.

The worst case scenario, however… Amelle shuddered against the whisper of a chill ghosting down her spine, so very much colder than the damp breeze. She didn't want to think about the worst thing that could possibly happen. There were worse things than cells and chains. Worse things than never seeing the farm again, never seeing her mother again. There were worse things than death, even.

As she moved methodically through each step of her rejuvenation potion recipe, Amelle considered her options. She didn't like them. She could _go,_ obviously taking every single precaution she possibly _could_, and fulfilling the letter of Mama's request, if not the spirit, approaching the task like any unpleasant chore to be done. Or she could _not_ go—the more appealing option, naturally—and… and what?

_Disappoint her,_ she thought miserably. _Do you really think you can expect to stay here if you don't _try_ to talk to him, at the very least? Oh, it's all very well that you want to make this a more permanent home, but will you be permitted to if you don't give her this?_

It wasn't as if Amelle thought for a moment Mama wouldn't welcome her home again, but things would definitely be… strained. The more practical side of her reasoned that a strained relationship with her mother was worth it if meant avoiding Tranquility.

The rejuvenation potion finished, she set aside the bottle and leaned back on her little stool, arching her spine until it cracked, then rolling her shoulders until they did the same. The packet of magebane ingredients lay innocuously on the workbench, weighted down by a heavy bottle of laudanum. Everything she needed, just waiting for her to go ahead and put them all together. Then she'd need to test the dosage, which Amelle looked forward to roughly as much as she looked forward to playing Isabela one on one in Wicked Grace.

Reaching out slowly, Amelle brushed the tips of her fingers against the edge of the packet; freeing it from underneath the potion bottle, she pulled it closer. She knew the recipe already, and had for a while now. And yet, Amelle's heart still thundered away in her chest as she pulled each ingredient out, setting small square packets of brown paper flat on her work surface. She breathed, in and out. Three deep, slow breaths.

Her hands were steady.

Amelle worked carefully, measuring each component twice before dropping it in a deep glass tube with the rest. Magebane wasn't a difficult recipe to master; no, as with so many potions, the difficulty came with dosage. She blended the mixture with a slender rod, watching as it went from a murky brown to a dull blood-red. Cradling the glass in her hands, Amelle added heat until the liquid within turned first a hazy lavender, then a vibrant, jewel-toned purple. Cooling the potion too quickly would cause the glass to shatter, as previous experience had taught her more than once, so it was with careful precision that she shifted the mana in her veins, gradually easing back heat as she pushed forward cooler energy. As the magebane cooled, it went cloudy before turning sharply clear.

Setting the tube down on her workbench, Amelle examined her work. A poison like this one really had no right being so _pretty. _Shafts of sunlight caught the liquid as she poured it into a bottle and then stoppered it, casting a long stream of pink light down the table's scarred and pitted surface.

Several small cobalt blue bottles—enough for several trials of differing strength—sat innocuously among a collection of completed potions, empty bottles, and stray corks. Amelle plucked one up and twisted its stopper free. The laudanum's bitter odor wafted up from both cork and bottle, and though she didn't think it terribly likely, Amelle wondered if it was worth hoping the magebane stood a chance of improving the laudanum's taste. Or maybe the laudanum would improve the magebane. Could work either way, really. The most likely outcome was that the whole affair would taste singularly _awful,_ so there was _that_ to look forward to.

Measuring the magebane into tinctures of varying potency was meticulous work, but once the liquids were combined (producing a smell worse than magebane _or_ laudanum, something Amelle wouldn't have thought possible), the bottles marked accordingly and the remaining magebane hidden away high on a shelf for safekeeping, Amelle stared down at her handiwork. There was no putting it off any longer—she'd have to test it sooner or later. At the moment, _later_ was the more appealing option; after the trip to Lothering for the plow, perhaps. She pushed away from the little workspace, her stool scraping loudly across the hayloft floor, and then climbed nimbly down the ladder. She'd let Merrill, Tomas, and Kellen know where she was headed and maybe see if Fenris still needed to take a trip into Lothering. His injuries seemed to be healing well enough, definitely faster than she'd anticipated. He still wanted to be useful and… repay her, she supposed, so Amelle had instructed Merrill show Fenris how to mix the bran mash for the horses along with a few other light-duty chores that wouldn't be too overtaxing. So long as they took it slow, she saw no harm in him accompanying her to Lothering—it was just a little longer than the turn they had taken around the farm the other day.

It had been a nice turn around the farm, though. Until the rain.

She still wasn't quite sure what to make of Fenris; he'd needed her help, she'd helped him and now he was doing a fine job with the healing process, which meant he'd be heading his own way soon. It'd made for an interesting few days, though. Maybe not always the _good_ type of interesting, especially at the beginning there, but… interesting all the same. What he'd said to Amelle in the barn came back to her, the way his low voice mixed too well with the shadows and the rush of rain. Bethany's death, not her fault. She wasn't sure she believed it, but it was nice to think somebody thought it was possible.

Merrill was hip deep in mucking out the stalls, singing an old Dalish tune under her breath when Amelle rounded a corner and found her.

"Anything you need from town?" she asked, wincing apologetically when Merrill jumped and gave a little yelp, swinging around, still holding the pitchfork, which resulted in Amelle having no choice but to dart out of the way or get skewered.

"By the Dread Wolf! You shouldn't sneak up on a person like that!" she cried, digging the tines down into the hay, resuming her mucking with vigor. "I could've poked you full of holes!"

"Healer," Amelle riposted, wiggling her fingers, but Merrill just shook her head, slender braids swinging. "I'm off to town again shortly. Figured I'd see about a plow. Is there anything else we need?"

"Nothing I can think of," Merrill answered, turning the pitchfork handle slowly in her hand. "But you'll want to tell Tomas he can stop fussing with the old handle. He'll be glad to hear that."

The barn was angled such that the little area behind the building was swathed in shade for most of the morning and was a popular spot for certain jobs, like repairing the plow, chopping wood, or mixing up bran mash. That was already the case this morning—Merrill said she saw Tomas working on the plow handle while Kellan chopped wood, and Amelle followed the sounds of wood being chopped, calling out to Tomas as she came through to the back of the barn.

"Good news, Tomas, I'm heading to town to see about a new—"

But when Amelle came through the barn door, it wasn't Kellen _or_ Tomas she found chopping wood. The plow was nearby, but abandoned, and the person methodically splitting log after log after log had graceful white lines twisting and twining up the center of his back like a vine, splitting at the nape of his neck and traveling across his shoulders and onward down his arms, lean cords of muscle along his back and arms that flexed with every swing of the axe. No, not Kellen and not Tomas, but Fenris. Definitely, absolutely, and undeniably Fenris. Sweat plastered his pale hair to his head and darkened the waistband of his trousers, but his shirt was safe and dry, hung neatly on the handle of the ruined plow.

For a moment Amelle couldn't speak, literally could not make any words of any language form in her brain or come out her mouth. For that moment, Amelle simply watched in open admiration at the way the muscles played beneath his skin.

But when, after far too long, the words finally _did_ come, what left her lips wasn't precisely what she'd expected to say. Or, more precisely, _shout._

"_What_ in the Maker's name are you—are you _trying_ to cripple yourself?" Amelle yelled, stomping around to face Fenris the very moment the axe landed solidly against the wedge, splitting the log in two as the blade lodged itself in the chopping block. "Is _that_ what you're trying to do? Did you think _baking a pie_ was an appropriate prelude to cutting _giant hunks of wood into kindling? _Are you _demented?_"

Her outburst hadn't surprised him. On the contrary, Fenris simply worked the axe free again and picked up another log to split, which did exactly nothing to soothe her burst of anger. "I told you I wished to be useful during my stay."

"Useful's fine," she snapped. "I wholly support being useful. But _this_—" Amelle swung her arm, gesturing grandly, "this is _asinine_. Are you trying to reinjure yourself? Is that what you _want?_"

"I am aware of my own limits," he ground out through his teeth. "I am not a fool."

"Chopping wood less than a week out from being shot and crushed by your horse in an ambush and you're trying to convince me you're not a fool?" Amelle reached out and poked one unerring fingertip against the muscle along his arm; there was no scar there, but it was without a doubt the spot he'd been shot. When Fenris hissed in a sudden, sharp breath through his teeth, Amelle experienced a fleeting stab of guilt, quickly drowned out by annoyance. "Maker's _balls_, Fenris, _honestly._"

Rubbing the abused muscle gingerly, he stepped around the chopping block to face her. "This is work I know how to do. I refuse to sit idle just because—"

"Did we not have the _what the healer says goes_ conversation we had? Because I am _nearly_ certain we had that conversation."

His brows lowered into a stubborn line that slashed across his forehead. "We did," he retorted. "I feel much recovered."

Amelle opened her mouth, then shut it. Then she wondered if maybe his brain had been somehow damaged in the attack. Because that would've explained so much. With a scowl, she crossed her arms over her chest. "Fine. But reinjure it, and you're on your own."

That line across his forehead lowered further as Fenris' scowl deepened. "Was there some purpose to this visit, Hawke?"

It wasn't the most artless subject change, but Amelle took his point clearly enough. "I thought I was going to find Tomas back here," she answered shortly. "But I'm planning to take a walk into Lothering in a bit. You'd mentioned wanting to make a trip yourself, so I figured I'd let you know I'd be going that way."

He nodded once, and then, rubbing his palms on his trousers, picked up the shirt hanging from the plow. "Yes," he answered, adding, "I have need to replace some of my belongings that were damaged in the slaver attack."

_Like the sense the Maker saw fit to give you?_ she thought acerbically, but what Amelle _said_ was, "All right. I'll make sure to find you before I go."

#

Evidently what Hawke needed to accomplish before leaving for Lothering was to change out of the simple cotton shirt and trousers she'd been wearing and into a dress not terribly unlike the one she'd worn the previous day, though the material was somewhat less diaphanous, he noted, the color of a robin's egg and trimmed with pale lace and dark blue buttons. Nothing so grand as what he'd seen ladies wearing in the Imperium or elsewhere across Thedas, but Hawke's bearing complemented the garment as much as the garment complemented Hawke, something he noticed in particular as his eye fell to the pleasing curve of her waist.

Or it would have been pleasing had she not still been so irritated with him. Hawke's displeasure rolled off in waves, as if the source of her scowl was further beneath the skin's surface than anyone could hope to imagine. Perhaps it made a sort of sense, given her moments of contentedness—the brief ones he'd been witness to—seemed to likewise originate deep within her. The same could also be said of her sadness. But now her posture was rigid stiff, and every step she took was one determined to propel her away from the farm as quickly as possible.

It didn't seem likely she was _only_ irritated with his decision to assist with chores more difficult than mixing horse feed. He knew himself and knew his limits, and would not have attempted such a task if he'd thought it would result in lasting damage. He could scarce afford foolish risks such as that, and yet Hawke's anger, sparking hotly in her eyes and in the furious flush that crept up her neck and warmed her cheeks, was just enough to make him begin to question his decision. Indeed, he was loath to admit it out loud, but his arm still ached where she'd poked him, and her precision in locating _just_ the right spot where the bullet had pierced his flesh was nothing less than surprising.

The silence between them ought to have been a welcome one; Fenris was accustomed to his own company and quite enjoyed the peace of solitude, but Hawke's own silence was tense; it crept pricklingly along his nerves, scraping up restlessness in its wake. Perhaps this disquietude was something to do with the incident that had unfolded the night before. That too was possible. Her… he supposed it was a confession, though in Fenris' opinion that there was nothing to confess, had revealed more to him in minutes than he'd learned in the days he'd spent at the farm so far. It certainly explained her deep resistance to her mother's suggestion, beyond, even, the obvious difficulty found in her brother's position with the templars.

Finally he could take no more of her rigid posture and furiously determined strides.

"If you have something to say, Hawke, I would ask that you say it."

She slowed her steps long enough to look at him, one eyebrow arching toward your hairline. "Something to say, maybe, on the topic of your blatant disregard for a healer's orders?"

"I know myself _and_ my limits," he countered. "I would ask you not insult my intelligence."

Hawke's expression slid from annoyance to something… wry and almost—incongruously enough—_amused. _"Everyone says that, you know. Everyone. People always insist they know their own limits, always insist they know themselves best. And nine times out of ten, when someone utters those exact words, it's either right before or right after they've done something boneheaded." She sent him a sidelong glance in the silence that followed, then added, "Healers don't like seeing people hurt. We especially don't like seeing the people we've healed hurt themselves."

"And I dislike feeling as if I am taking advantage of hospitality."

"You said as much." They went a few steps further before she said, "So what are we supposed to do about it?"

"…Do?"

"I can hardly keep you from doing what you set your mind to doing. The most I can do, in fact, is refuse to heal any new damage you do to yourself. Which, I'm afraid you'll find, is a difficult promise for any healer to make." Hawke then clasped her hands in front of her, and… _something_ about her gait changed. No longer did she walk as if she were trying to escape the farm, and Fenris wondered anew whether she was truly irritated _with him._

"What I propose," she continued, "is… a compromise."

"What sort of compromise?"

"You want to be useful on the farm."

"I do."

"All right," Hawke said, nodding once. "Then help _me._"

Fenris didn't understand her meaning and said so, at which point Hawke shrugged. "Stay here and recover—_allow_ yourself to recover, _fully_—and in return, you can repay me helping me with…" She sent him another glance from the corner of her eye. "I told you I was working on a magebane tincture."

"You did," he replied. "But I know nothing of potion-crafting—"

"I need to test it." Her throat moved as she swallowed. "But at the end of the day, magebane is a poison, and it's idiotic of me to pretend otherwise. If something goes wrong, I need someone there who'll have his wits about him."

"You anticipate… something going wrong?"

Hawke shrugged again. "When you're dealing with potions and poisons, there's always room for something to go badly. This is… counter to my usual skill set—I'm not used to blending things designed to _hurt_. And I'm sure as the Void not used to _taking_ them. But," she sighed, tipping her head back to look at the sky, "if I'm actually _going_ to go to Kirkwall to find Carver, I'd better have a damned fine potion on my side if I don't want to wind up a permanent guest of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi."

"You… have decided to go, then."

"Depends on if I can perfect the magebane tincture," she replied. "Sapping my mana is good. Knocking me senseless is… not so good."

"Which is where you want me to come in."

"It doesn't sound like much," Hawke admitted, "but having someone standing by with lyrium potion should I need it will be an immense help."

"Why not ask another's assistance?"

"Isabela and Varric already think it's a bad idea, and Merrill already worries too much. Magebane isn't a pretty poison. I don't—I don't want to scare her."

"Whereas I…"

The look she shot him was far too shrewd for Fenris' liking. "I have a feeling you've seen plenty in your life that hasn't been pretty. I doubt you scare easily."

The request sounded too… easy, leaving Fenris with the feeling Hawke was trying to dupe him somehow, by tricking him into accepting a meaningless, empty task.

All the same, it was a compromise, and he did not expect to remain at the Hawke farm for much longer. "Very well," he finally agreed. "If you require my aid, you will have it."

After Fenris agreed to assist Hawke with her potion testing, they continued on to Lothering in a far more companionable silence than they'd started out with. Lush green fields and farms rolled across the hilly landscape on either side of the main road, until they came upon Lothering proper. The town, though small, was pleasanter than the overgrown mining camps scattered across the countryside, but that was the difference between towns built around mines and ones built around farms. The people of Lothering didn't possess the same desperate, pinched, _ill_ look of the people who lived around the lyrium mines. Though Fenris would not have placed the Hawke he'd first met—the one dressed in red who commanded the attention of a crowd—in such a town, _this_ one—the Hawke who tended horses and ran through rainstorms and shared her sorrows with a near-stranger in dim lanternlight—seemed entirely in place here.

"That was the schoolhouse we just passed," she said as they walked, "and along Main Street here we've got the general store and the feed store and Miss Allison's dress shop—doubt you'll need to stop in there—and… well, it's nothing fancy, but old Hiram's been Lothering's tailor for as long as I can remember, so if it's clothes you're needing…"

He shot her a curious look, but she only shrugged. "Doesn't take second sight to notice how light you pack _and_ how put out you were after our soaking yesterday."

"You are… observant," he murmured, recalling too clearly Hawke's scrutiny the day she'd sold him the frostrock ointment. Observant, indeed.

"I have to be, I think. It comes with the territory. Doesn't matter if I'm healing someone or selling them something, I need to be able to see what it is they need."

"You are not incorrect, as it happens."

Hawke nodded. "You should probably go on ahead, then. I've got to see about that plow, and hunt down Varric and Isabela and let them know our plans may possibly… change, somewhat."

"Do you think they will accompany you?"

"I think," Hawke drawled dryly, "Isabela wouldn't let me leave her behind if she thought I was heading anywhere remotely_ interesting."_

#

"Well, _obviously_ you're taking us, kitten. When do we leave?"

Amelle pinched the bridge of her nose. "Isabela, I'm not so sure—"

"You're not leaving us behind. Either of us."

"I don't _intend_ to. But you've made my intent rather easier said than done."

"Oh, this?" Isabela flicked a finger at one of the bars separating her from Amelle. It clanged softly. "This is _nothing._ It's just a minor inconvenience. A formality. A—"

"Inconvenient formality my left foot," drawled Aveline from behind her. Amelle glanced over her shoulder—Aveline was an old friend, sure enough, but even the oldest friends had lines that weren't meant to be crossed, so Amelle didn't cross them. Isabela, on the other hand, wasn't Amelle and, as Aveline was always quick to point out, Isabela wasn't Aveline's friend, either. Right now, in fact, she looked annoyed enough to spit, at which point Amelle wondered if Isabela had been needling the sheriff all morning. "Barlin's told and told and _told_ you knives aren't welcome at Dane's Refuge."

"Barlin's just cranky I keep winning," Isabela tossed back airily.

"Cranky he can't catch you with cards up your sleeve, you mean," Aveline riposted, but Isabela just rolled her eyes.

"Everyone cheats at Wicked Grace, big girl—it's practically the object of the game. Anyone who says otherwise is just playing a different kind of game."

Turning her back on Isabela, Amelle crossed the tiny room and planted her hands on Aveline's desk, leaning forward. "You're _really_ keeping her?" she asked. "Really, _really_ keeping her?"

"Twenty-four hours in a cell and a fine. You know the rules, Hawke."

Amelle did know the rules, as well as she knew Aveline wasn't about to bend them for her. She glanced back at Isabela, who'd now draped herself along the narrow bunk, booted feet propped up against the wall. "Varric paid the fine already, sweet thing. Now it's just a matter of waiting." She smiled and shot Amelle a wink. "Unless you feel like breaking me out."

Amelle could only roll her eyes. "I am _fairly certain_ this isn't the sort of conversation you're meant to have in front of the sheriff, Isabela."

"Oh, you're no fun at all," Isabela replied, thumping one booted heel against the wall, watching Aveline out of the corner of her eye, as if _waiting_ for the other woman to react.

Amelle turned back to her friend. As it had happened, Amelle had stopped in at the sheriff's office in hopes of finding Aveline. Catching Isabela there was just a… a bonus, in a demented sort of way.

"So? What do you say?"

Aveline shook her head and let out a long breath. "You're really going to Kirkwall? _Really?_"

"Unless I chicken out at the last minute? Yes."

"Family's family, I know that well as anyone, but even so, I'm surprised Leandra wants you to take that kind of risk."

"It's only risky if I don't prepare for it."

Aveline's face creased into a pained grimace. "Maker, don't tell me about your preparations."

"They're all perfectly legal!"

"And perfectly asinine too, if my guess is right."

"This may surprise you, Aveline," chirped Isabela from her bunk, "but you and I happen to be in _complete agreement_ on that."

The look Aveline then shot Amelle was too eloquent by half. "Oh," she said, brows lifting, "that makes me feel _ever_ so much better."

Frustration prickled under her skin as Amelle sent a glare Isabela's way. "Isabela's exaggerating, _like she does._ I'm not asking you to help, or come along, or to do anything remotely _questionable._ I just want you to keep an eye on Mama and the farm while I'm gone."

"And if you don't come back?"

"Maker's breath, Aveline," Amelle huffed, "_I'm coming back._"

_Especially if I don't come back._


	8. Chapter 8

Fenris didn't see Hawke at their meeting place, which struck him as… odd, particularly since he'd been concerned his own errands were taking too much time—more time than he was comfortable spending, at any rate. He didn't think she'd have left without him, but nor did it seem terribly likely she was still busy with acquiring a new plow for the farm. He shifted the brown paper and twine-wrapped package in his arms and made his way slowly down the street, pausing briefly in front of the shop windows to glance inside. The general store yielded no sign of her, and neither did the feed store, the apothecary, or the saloon. He went as far as the chantry before turning back, but on his return route, Fenris caught sight of something he hadn't seen on his first trip up the street.

Amelle Hawke, coming out of the dressmaker's shop, similarly-wrapped packages in her arms.

"Hawke," he called, lengthening his stride to catch up with her. She whirled, eyes wide with surprise that turned quickly to sheepishness.

"You… weren't waiting long, were you?" she asked, arms tightening around the parcels so the paper crinkled. "I thought—I thought I'd have enough time…"

"No," he answered carefully. "I have what I came for."

"And… and Hiram had what you were looking for?"

"I required nothing unusual." Indeed, he'd replaced the lost and damaged clothes with more of the same. "And you?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow and letting his eyes slide back to the shopfront window. "I was unaware ladies' garment shops sold such things as field plows."

"Tomas and Kellen are bringing around the wagon later," was her pert reply. "I can hardly carry a plow home myself. Unless you thought perhaps that's why I'd brought you along? To help me carry it?"

"I suspect that might constitute overtaxing myself," was his own deadpan reply.

"_Now_ you care about the healer's orders. I see how it is."

The walk home was significantly less tense than the walk into town, and Fenris found himself wondering if part of the reason for that had to do with the parcel Hawke carried. She asked his impressions of Lothering and he gave them (small but not unpleasantly so); the conversation moved to horses (though she steadfastly refused to answer his inquiry regarding Falcon's "full name"), and, finally, travel.

"I… suppose I ought to be thankful you were around for Mama's little… request," she said after a lengthy pause.

Fenris glanced over at her, but Hawke's gaze never strayed from the road before them. "Why is that?" he asked.

"I don't have to explain _why_ I need to go to Kirkwall. Only that I _do._"

"You have decided, then."

"Yes," Hawke replied with a nod. Then her expression turned doubtful. "I think so. It depends."

"On?"

"On whether I can perfect that magebane tincture. I've got three vials I have to test. With luck, one of them will work like it should."

They walked on in silence that was, on Fenris' part at least, contemplative. Birdsong twittered around them, and the trees rustled with wind that pushed puffy clouds across the sky above. After nearly a full minute, he said, "How do you expect to… test these potions?"

There was a check in her step as she looked over, blinking once, then twice. "I test it, of course. Every mage is different; I'm making this for myself, so… _I _need to be the one to test it."

"And if it is successful?"

"A successful tincture will suppress my powers without…" she trailed off, looking as though the next words she was about to say were truly distasteful. "Without affecting _me_ adversely."

Fenris suspected there was much she wasn't saying. "And by 'adversely,' you mean…"

"I don't want it to leave me insensible," she replied, kicking a rock in her path. "I need to be able to _function_. It won't do me any good if I'm entirely defenseless. At the very least I have to be able to draw, aim, and shoot a gun."

He nodded. Those were all reasonable, practical conditions; he sent her a sidelong glance as he asked, "Do you expect those results, or do you hope for them?"

Hawke shifted her package in her arms, pursing her lips in thought before answering. "A little of both. But that's why I've got to test them." She hesitated, awkwardly, pursed lips screwing to the side, changing the tone of her expression. "I know you said you'd… help. When it came time to test them."

"I did."

Several more steps in silence. Her throat worked as she swallowed once. "The first—I… when we get back to the farm, I'll be ready for the first trial."

"What, then, are your plans once your tests are complete?"

Shrugging slim shoulders, Hawke frowned at the road. "I suppose… Kirkwall. Isabela's all for a trip, and Varric's originally from Kirkwall—from what I remember, he has a brother living there."

"It is a long journey."

"Maker, _tell _me about it," she agreed, making a face. "I think the best route's up through Highever, though. Catch a boat from there and it's a straight journey to the Free Marches."

Fenris considered this. Her reasoning was sound—if Hawke was interested in keeping the journey as short as possible, sailing out of Highever was the obvious choice. Highever, though, was an expensive port. "Highever and not Amaranthine?" he asked.

"The shorter I can make the trip, the better."

He nodded. "You wish to waste no time. I understand."

Hawke startled slightly, then _looked_ at him. "No. No, time… well, time's got a little to do with it, but…" She grimaced then, and shook her head. "Trust me. The less time I spend on a boat, the better." Once she was satisfied he took her meaning, she nodded once. The road before them forked, and when Hawke took the path that led to the right, Fenris followed.

"In any case," she went on, "I told you you were welcome to stay as long as you needed. This… still stands, of course. If you'd rather stay behind on the farm and move on at your leisure, you're more than welcome to do just that. Nobody's kicking you out. Wanted to make sure you knew that. You can stay or you can leave. That part's entirely up to you."

"I… appreciate the sentiment," he replied. The Hawke farm was in sight now, the farmhouse nestled comfortably in a sea of green. Few places, in his experience, were truly as peaceful as they appeared, but the Hawke farm was a notable exception. Fenris did not look forward to leaving it, but staying was not an option and never had been. "It so happens I was en route to Kirkwall when you… happened upon me."

Hawke stopped and looked at him a moment, brows raised. "Well that's… a happy coincidence." Surprise melted away with a grimace and she shook her head, adding, "Maybe not _happy_, no, but… a coincidence. If you're traveling that way anyway…" As if to punctuate her statement, she stepped off the main road and onto the crest of a grassy hill on the edge of the Hawke property.

"You are thinking we might make such a journey in each other's company," he remarked, following her.

Hawke shrugged and the smile she sent him was tinged with self deprecation. "I was actually thinking _safety in numbers_, but that's just about the same thing." She took a few more steps then sat, setting her parcel aside. "Working under the assumption I can get the potion straightened out sooner rather than later, it should take a little less than a week to get enough supplies together."

"So long?"

Her expression turned thoughtful. "That also gives Varric enough time to bail Isabela out of jail." At Fenris' expression, Hawke smiled and shrugged. "It's practically tradition by now. I think whatever she does that gets her caught, she does on purpose. She probably thinks she's helping to give Aveline's—she's Lothering's sheriff—life more meaning." After a pause, she added, "I… doubt Aveline agrees."

"Probably not."

They continued together down the hilly terrain, barn and farmhouse growing larger with each stride. "Well," Hawke said, "I suppose that settles it. No putting off preparation longer than we have to, right?" Her expression turned troubled as she looked inward, but before Fenris could comment, Hawke gave herself a shake and smiled, though it looked strangely brittle around the edges. "Besides, the sooner we leave, the sooner I can come back."

"That is one way of looking at it, I suppose." He looked behind Hawke, to the barn. "Do you wish to test the potion this afternoon, then?"

With a brief glance back at the barn and an even briefer one at the house, she nodded. "Yes, I… yes. Let me get these things put away and I'll meet you in the hayloft. If we're very lucky, I'll get it right on the first try."

"Does that happen often?"

"Fenris," Hawke said with a snort as they both turned and started for the house, "if I had luck on my side, I wouldn't need this potion to begin with."

Having only replaced what he'd lost to damage, it hadn't taken long for Fenris to put away his purchases, and the barn was quiet as he climbed the ladder to the hayloft. It was an easy spot to miss, the ramshackle table and shelves pushed against the far wall, hidden almost entirely by stacked hay bales. Dried bunches of elfroot and other herbs he did not recognize and could not identify hung from one of the lowest rafters, swaying gently in the breeze blowing through the open hatch, which let in light as well as air. Suddenly the table's placement made a great deal more sense. A lantern hung from a hook, unlit; the smudged, dark glass left him to wonder how many late nights Hawke had sat at this table, crafting and testing the potions she eventually sold.

He approached the table to find it was, in actuality, a door, propped up on either end by sawhorses, the surface riddled with scratches and scorch marks. To one side was a leatherbound notebook, blown open by the breeze, revealing page after page of scribbled notes and drawings entirely foreign to him. The desk was weighted down with brass scales and a mortar and pestle and heavy bottles as well as smaller, lighter vials. He did not _touch_ anything, because these things were not his to touch, and yet he found himself unwillingly fascinated by this tiny corner, so very different from what he'd seen of the farm. Even the scent of it was different; mingling with the sweet smell of hay there was the sharper, more medicinal scent of… something bitter, something beyond the herbs hanging from the rafters. Something—

"Somehow I'm not surprised you beat me up here."

He turned to find Hawke pulling herself up the ladder. Gone was the dress from earlier; she was once again clad in trousers and a shirt he was beginning to suspect had once belonged to her brother.

"It is… an interesting area."

"Interesting," she echoed, brushing the hay from her pants as she stood up straight. "That's an improvement from Isabela's 'creepy' and Varric's 'inspiring.'"

"Dare I ask what he found _inspiring_?"

Shrugging, Hawke pulled a stool from the shadows beneath the table and sat upon it. "He's a writer. Damned near everything's inspiring. The fact Isabela called it creepy first just made the inspiration twice as potent."

"I fail to see what is 'creepy' about such a workspace."

Hawke shook her head, pulling three blue vials closer. "She said it reminded her of the sort of thing a mad scientist might set up for himself." Fenris knew his expression was skeptical; when Hawke looked up and met his gaze, she gave a short laugh and nodded. "My reaction was much the same." She sighed, then, holding the bottles so they clinked quietly together. "Then again, I'm about to run a series of experiments on myself, so maybe Isabela's description wasn't that far off."

Fenris sat on the edge of a nearby hay bale. "You have told me little of what to expect."

"I'm… not entirely sure what _to_ expect," she admitted, drawing one leg up to rest her heel on the stool and wrapping her arms around her knee. "Still. I know what I want the potion to do. It might do what I need, or it might do more or less than I need." She looked up from the vials she held, meeting his eyes for a tense moment before looking down again. "I suspect you're interested in hearing the worst case scenario."

"That would be a help."

"I gather you know a bit about magebane already. You said it's illegal in the Imperium?" At his nod, she went on. "So you know it'll inhibit spellcasting. The problem is, at least for spirit healers, our magic extends beyond basic spells. It's… it's a state of mind, almost. I'm—well, I won't say I'm _never_ sick, but I am very, very rarely ill. Can't remember the last time I was, in fact. It's because spirit healers heal themselves constantly—it's second nature to us. If you inhibit our magic, we're more than just cut off from our mana; we can't protect ourselves on the most basic level. It takes away our immunity entirely, so poisons like magebane pack even more of a punch."

"This is why you are concerned with the strength of the tincture."

"Partially," she replied. "Yes." Hawke looked at each vial for a long moment before choosing one and setting the other two aside. "But also, because magebane does inhibit a spirit healer's ability to heal, the corruptor agent in magebane… affects us—or me, at least—a little differently than other mages." At his curious look, Hawke grimaced down to the vial she held. "Let's put it this way: if you're very fond of your boots, you might want to keep your distance."

He sent her a long, considering look before asking, "Are you sure it is wise to attempt this in a _hayloft._"

Hawke snatched up another tiny bottle before pushing to her feet. "I'm damn certain it's not, since you're asking." She reached the ladder and sent him a grim smile, lightly tossing the second vial. It sailed end over end, and the bluish sheen it gave off couldn't have been anything other than lyrium potion. "You're going to need that."

Once their feet were again on solid ground, and before Fenris could ask anything more, Hawke freed the cork and put the vial to her lips. She grimaced, letting out an inarticulate noise of disgust as she corked the bottle and shoved it into the pocket of her trousers.

"_Maker,_ that's _foul,_" she choked, eyes clenched shut. "That may be the foulest, vilest thing I've ever tasted in the whole of my life."

"Did you expect otherwise?" he asked, cautiously.

"I didn't expect it to taste _good,_ if that's what you're asking. But that was something else entirely." She spat once on the hay-strewn floor and coughed again. Then, eyes watering as she wiped one hand across her mouth, her look of disgust never abating, Hawke called a ball of flickering blue flame to the palm of her other hand and began to count.

By the count of eight, the flames she'd called forth began struggling.

By the time she reached a count of fifteen, the floundering globe started to shrink.

By twenty-three, the fireball had dwindled to a single, flickering flame.

In thirty seconds, Hawke could manage no magic at all. Her brow creased in concentration as she _tried_, but no manifestation of mana showed itself.

"Is it done?" he asked quietly.

Hawke swallowed hard and leaned against a support post. Her complexion had gone strangely pale and beads of sweat broke out on her brow. "We'll see. Still plenty of time for things to go sideways. And on that note, if I pass out, get that lyrium potion into me and bring me into the house." Despite her jesting tone, Hawke's condition worsened with every second that ticked past. Her pallid face was soon slick with sweat, her shirt damp and dark with it, despite the mildness of the day.

"Enough," he said, finally, striding forward as he pulled the stopper off the bottle of lyrium potion, handing it to her.

"Not yet," Hawke replied weakly, sinking to the ground. She ran a hand through her sweaty hair, pushing it away from her forehead.

"Not _yet_?" Fenris retorted, incredulous. "Did you not say you wished to develop a tincture that would _not_ incapacitate you?"

"Yes, but—" Whatever Hawke was going to say, the words died in her throat as a peculiar expression came over her face. Scrambling to her feet, she lurched desperately to a bucket by the barn door where she proceeded to empty the contents of her stomach. Once the wave had passed, she coughed and spat, shoulders trembling as she gulped in greedy breaths.

He'd never seen anything quite like it.

Then Hawke flung out her hand. "Lyrium," she croaked. Wordlessly he handed over the vial. Spitting once more, she downed the bottle's contents and sank back to sit on the cold dirt floor.

#

Amelle hated magebane.

Amelle _really_ hated magebane.

She wasn't terribly fond of laudanum right now, either. Didn't seem possible something could taste just as bad coming up as it did going down, but that was life for you: brand new learning experiences waiting around every corner. And then the whole mess got followed by a lyrium chaser, which tasted like nothing so much as licorice gone horribly wrong.

She didn't care to think too much about the taste in her mouth right now. It was too important to keep that lyrium down.

"Thanks," she managed, rubbing at her streaming eyes.

Then the elf crouched down, the better to look her in the eye. "_That_ was your _test_?" he asked, his voice a low growl as he enunciated every word with infinite care.

"That was my test."

"And yet you don't seem bothered by the outcome."

"I'll feel a lot better about the outcome after a good night's sleep. We'll try again tomorrow." She winced, rubbing the back of her head where a headache was beginning to throb. Magebane worked quickly—it didn't matter a damn bit _how_ much her stomach rebelled, the poison was already well into her system by that point. Lyrium _stopped_ the poison, but only time alleviated its effects.

His dark brows lowered and drew together into a scowl, his jaw tightening. "I take it that was not what you'd consider a 'worst-case scenario.'"

"Nope."

"Dare I ask what _is?_"

Amelle considered this, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. "Magebane's fatal in large enough doses. That would've been a lot worse than this."

He ground out a swear between clenched teeth. "You are _foolish._"

"I'm not _foolish,"_ she replied, sending him a doleful look._ "_I know I need an even lower dose in the tincture. This is how the process works. Trial and error. And error. And error. And error again."

"You would do yourself such harm?"

The headache pounded worse, a steady tattoo inside her skull that tensed and pushed in a rhythm Amelle was certain would never stop. With numb, clumsy fingers she tucked the empty lyrium bottle into her shirt pocket before shooting a narrow glare at Fenris. "You didn't seem too put off by the idea when I asked. In fact you commended me on wanting to control my powers. Well, guess what, Fenris? _This,_" she said, flinging her arm out, "is the price I have to pay if I want to control my powers. If I want to remain undetected. If I _don't_ want to be found out by the templars. I'm not doing this for _fun_." She spat out the word as she heaved herself forward and began pushing resolutely—if unsteadily—to her feet, leaning heavily on the post for support. "I'm doing this because what I'm trying to avoid is _worse."_

Fenris said nothing. He said nothing for so long that the other sounds of the farm swelled to fill the quiet. The wind pushed through the pines. Chickens clucked. Sheep bleated. Tomas and Kellen shouted cheerfully to each other as they hitched a pair of horses to the wagon. Still, Fenris said nothing. He only stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, and couldn't quite figure her out.

Finally, he raised his chin—either in defiance or stubbornness; Amelle didn't know which—and said, "What now?"

"Now I take myself to bed and sleep this off." But as Amelle pushed away from the support beam, she took a few stumbling steps when her momentum stopped abruptly as a warm hand gripped her elbow, taking her weight. He guided her arm around his shoulders, wrapping his arm around her middle, supporting her.

"You don't have to—"

A muscle flexed in his jaw, but Fenris kept looking straight ahead. "I said I would assist you. If this is what you require, then that is what I will do."

Without another word on the matter, he steered her out of the barn and up to the house. Mama was doing some pruning in the garden, much to Amelle's endless relief, allowing them entry without comment. She'd explain to Mama she'd been testing a potion—but _later. _

Later, when her head wasn't pounding and she didn't feel as weak and uncoordinated as a baby kitten.

Once inside, Amelle squinted up at the stairs. "Right. I think we can do this. I'll grab the bannister and you can—" But her words cut off with a yelp as Fenris slid an arm behind her knees and scooped her up instead.

At her baffled look, he only shrugged his shoulders. "This is quicker," he said tersely.

It was, indeed. Quicker, true, but awkward and strange and warm and _solid_. And what if his collarbone wasn't healed to support such extra weight? What if his knee gave out halfway up the stairs? What if he misstepped? What if—

"Hawke," he said, his low voice snapping into her thoughts and, apparently, _reading them_. "I am fine."

They reached the topmost stair before Amelle could think to reply, and before she could argue, Fenris shouldered open the door to her room. Setting her carefully on her two feet, he remained on the threshold, watching silently as she took several trudging steps to sit heavily on the edge of her bed.

"Thank you," she said quietly, resting her elbows on her knees and cradling her head in her hands.

Fenris gave a single nod and then, with only a hint of hesitation, crossed into the room and poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on her bedside table, pressing it into her hands.

"And thank you again," she murmured before taking a long, deep drink.

"Is there anything else you require assistance with?"

"No, I…" but the words died out. Amelle shook her head. "No. Sleep's the only thing that will help me now."

"Very well. Do you expect to continue your trials tomorrow?"

Setting her water aside to unlace her boots, Amelle nodded. "I promise, nothing will be quite as bad as today was. Each dosage here on out will have less and less magebane in it. The first test is always the worst one." She pulled off one boot, then the other, dropping them. They landed with a hollow knock against the floor.

Fenris looked a moment like he was going to say something, but his brows furrowed in a frown and he gave a minute shake of his head. Then, afterwards, he asked, "And you are certain you will be recovered tomorrow."

She nodded. "I am."

"And you are continuing your trials tomorrow."

Again, Amelle nodded. "You know I am."

He fell strangely silent then. "And you will not be dissuaded."

"No, Fenris. I will not be dissuaded."

He looked down, a pensive frown creasing his forehead. A second ticked by. Then two. Three.

"Then I will continue to assist you."


	9. Chapter 9

It took Hawke the better part of a week to test the first batch of magebane potion. It was a process Fenris had absolutely no desire to witness again.

Though Hawke had warned him more than once—warned him to the point her warnings had grown tiresome—the magebane's effects on her would be unpleasant, Fenris considered himself more than capable of the task. He was, after all, no stranger to unpleasantness. He was also perfectly aware of the reasons why magebane was outlawed in the Imperium, even if he didn't particularly _care_ about those reasons, and had made use of the poison himself from time to time—when the occasion afforded itself—from the moment Danarius had first sent hunters after him. As efficient as bullets were, they were far more effective against mages—mages who could heal themselves with a thought—when dipped in magebane. The poison was not an easy one to acquire, but proved useful those times he'd acquired it.

He knew what it did, and yet.

And yet, from the moment Hawke first tilted the bottle to her lips and took that first swallow, Fenris found he could not remain detached and sanguine and simply _watch_ as Hawke's condition deteriorated, second by second by second. He drew no satisfaction—mage or no—from the sounds of her retching, or of the sight of her too weak to stand.

But she had asked his assistance, and he had promised to give it.

The second trial left Hawke worse than the first, leaving a cold clamminess upon her skin lasting two full days and the night in between. But the third—the _third_ trial left her only queasy and, though ill, but not violently so. The third potion still left her unsteady on her feet, but in no danger of losing her footing entirely.

The third potion left Hawke looking—despite the sickly tinge to her cheeks—_optimistic. _He'd given her lyrium potion and had again assisted her to her bed, leaving her to rest while the poison cycled itself through her system, but there was no doubt whatsoever about it: she was moving closer to possessing a tincture to quiet her magic, rendering her all but undetectable.

The next morning Fenris found Hawke hunched over her workbench. The lantern was still lit, though the hour was well past dawn and pale shafts of light filtered through the open hatch as the soft, faraway clucks of chickens rippled the early-morning peace. A cup of tea sat nearly forgotten by her elbow, mostly full but likely cold; with an absent gesture from Hawke, a glimmer of light pulsed up from the cup and the tea started to steam anew. She had several more cobalt blue vials in front of her, and with a pipette in her enviably steady hand, measured out magebane into each of the little bottles.

Hawke looked up when a board creaked beneath Fenris' feet.

"You're up early," she said with a crooked smile, then looked back down again, gently setting the pipette on a square of oiled leather alongside several other tools. She glanced briefly at her notes and nodded to herself before stoppering each of the small vials with corks numbered in ink, so she could tell the difference between the bottles.

"I could say the same of you."

Her smile widened and she pushed away from the table, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankle. "I barely slept a wink last night." At his raised eyebrows she nodded at the bottles and phials across her desk. "I got up early to, ah, _dispose_ of the previous attempts and rinse out the bottles."

Such a poison was not easily disposed of. Fenris knew it and doubtless Hawke knew it too. "Might I ask where you chose to dispose of them?"

The look she shot him was guileless, an echo of the woman he'd first met, capturing the crowd's attention with her red dress, a wink, a sweeping curtsey. It all seemed so _long_ ago, and yet he knew it had only been the better part of two weeks. "The _well_, obviously." Then guilelessness vanished with a cocked eyebrow and an arch grin. "Appearances to the contrary, Fenris, I do know what I'm doing."

His brows lowered. "I did not mean to imply—"

She reached out, flicking a finger at the bottle of laudanum, her nail tapping against the glass. "Burned it. Early this morning. I stayed away—_far_ away from the fumes, but… well," she said, shrugging, "the alcohol in the laudanum burns off and takes damn near everything with it."

He nodded, impressed. "Effective."

"And _pretty_. I've never seen anything burn quite like a magebane tincture." Then Hawke wrinkled her nose. "Pretty enough colors to almost make up for the horrific stench of it, anyway," she added. "Maker have mercy, it was _foul._"

Fenris allowed himself a soft snort of laughter and took a step closer to the table, perching on the edge of a hay bale pulled away from the rest; it sat at a jaunty angle next to the worktable and held overflow from the shelves: a stack of books, some untitled—grimoires, no doubt—to thick tomes with titles including _Man from the Medical Point of View,_ _The Anatomical Society of Ferelden: A Journal of Anatomy and Physiology, Orlesienne Society Médicale: Une Étude sur Les Maladies et Les Infections, _and_ Herbology: Medicinal Plants of Thedas; _bottles of ink and leatherbound journals, their pages rippled with wear between the covers and scraps of paper peeking out to mark important pages. He took a seat on the edge of the hay bale, careful not to disturb the other items resting there.

On Hawke's worktable, another leather journal lay open, only half the pages written on, the other half smooth and pristine and as yet unsullied by ink; a pestle weighted down the pages against the breeze coming through the hatch. "And now?" he asked.

"And now…" she echoed, looking at her work. "And now I think I'm…" she ran a finger along a line of script in her notebook and pursed her lips. "I think I'm close. I think I'm very close." Hawke looked up, and her smile was back, reaching her eyes and warming them. "Who knows?" Hawke said, holding his gaze; despite what Fenris suspected was residual paleness from the week's tests, color flared at her cheeks. She swallowed and then, though her smile widened, something in Hawke's expression faltered like a shutter in a storm, and with a jerk she blinked and looked back down at her notes. "You probably won't even have to carry me back to the house this time."

"Hmm."

Hawke snorted, placing the pestle back in its mortar and closing her notes as she arranged and rearranged the small, slender vials according to strength. "Please _try_ to rein in your confidence, Fenris," she said lightly, smoothing a finger over the top of one marked cork. "It's embarrassing." Then, twisting slightly on her stool, Hawke picked up her teacup and took a sip. "Well," she said, tapping her finger against the rim of her cup as she slid a glance sideways to him, then back to her cup. "That's three more potions down. One of them's got to be my ticket into Kirkwall."

"You'll begin with the strongest of the three?"

She nodded. "And work down to the weakest."

Fenris nodded at the vials. "How are you certain you're getting the same amount from each sample?"

"It's better, actually," she said, turning on the stool again and setting her teacup on the table, "if the tests aren't exactly the same dosage every time, you see—dosing myself on the road isn't necessarily going to be a precise process. As I need stronger doses, I'll take more." As she spoke, she worked free the cork from one of the bottles and took the pipette up between her fingers. "For my purposes right now, I'm taking…" Hawke dipped the pipette into the vial and measured out some of the liquid, "roughly this much, I'd say."

Scarcely an inch of jewel-toned liquid shimmered in the glass tubing.

"It…"

"Isn't much. I know. Magebane packs a wallop, as you've already seen." Then she reached out and released the suspended tincture into tea. At Fenris' look, she shrugged. "No time like the present, I think." She set the pipette aside and re-stoppered the vial. "And I'm curious as to whether _anything_ can make this stuff taste less awful." She gave the tea a quick stir, and took a cautious sip, and then another.

"Is the taste improved?"

Hawke wrinkled her nose and looked down into the cup, as if divining answers to an unspoken question in its depths. "It's still awful," she murmured, putting the cup to her lips again and drinking deeply. "It's just… a different _type_ of awful. Hard to say whether it's slightly less awful than before or slightly—"

Hawke's words cut off into silence as she went suddenly and entirely _white._ With a graceless abruptness he'd never seen from her before, she spun around on the small stool, her teacup falling clumsily from her fingers—he reached out, but bare seconds too late, and it landed with a hollow crack, splintering into three jagged pieces as it fell upon the plank floor, tea seeping into the wood grain.

"Hawke—"

"Shit," she breathed, gripping the table's edge. _"Shit."_

Her face, already gone alarmingly pale, started edging into grey—faster than any of the previous week's trials—and Fenris pushed to his feet. Hawke looked as if she were about to stand, but then tilted unsteadily and pitched forward. Fenris caught her about the waist an instant before her knees buckled, keeping her steady as he maneuvered her down upon the hay bale, sending the tower of books toppling to the floor as he told himself her cold fingers and pale lips were _normal_, that the deep bruise-blue shadows beneath her eyes were _normal_, that every struggling, reed-thin breath was _normal._

#

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Amelle could not believe she'd done something so monumentally _stupid._

The pipette glinted innocuously in a shaft of early morning sunlight, its inside coated with laudanum and magebane. But above the line where the tincture had been, the glass still bore the faint shimmer of pure, undiluted magebane. Certainly more than enough to alter the concentration of her tiny dose.

Idiot. She was such an _idiot._

Damn him and his attentive questions and his damned _eyes_ and—damn him anyway.

Fenris said her name, attentive curiosity thickening into alarm. Well, at least there was that. At least she wasn't alone up here—granted, the fact that she wouldn't have made such an error if she'd _been_ alone was neither here nor there.

Lyrium. She needed _lyrium._ Fenris had seen her through enough trials to know this step. There was a cache of potions tucked away on her topmost shelf. It was only two, maybe three steps from where she sat now, but retrieving a bottle of lyrium potion right now would mean first she'd have to stand, and then she'd have to _walk. _She gripped the edge of the table until her fingers ached and tried pushing to her feet, but the world tilted and swayed and the room _spun_ and Maker help her, she was _dumb_ sometimes.

And then Fenris' hands, warm and _sure,_ were supporting Amelle, lifting her easily, setting her carefully on the bale of hay where he'd been sitting and she sunk to one side, supporting herself on one elbow.

To his credit, Fenris wasn't hovering, wasting time asking foolish questions she couldn't answer. ("What happened?" "What did you do?" "Why are you an idiot?") Bottles clinked and rattled upon their shelves as he rifled through them, searching, she knew, for that tell-tale blue shimmer.

"Top one," Amelle managed, the words sounding dry and paper-thin to her ears. Heaviness pressed in all around her—beyond the terrifying suddenness of Amelle's connection to the Fade going suddenly, frighteningly _silent_, her mana stilling in her veins as abruptly as a candle going dark in the thick of a storm—Amelle's throat was tight and dry, and her icy fingertips had started to go numb. The air around her was too thick and heavy to breathe; drawing it into her lungs was an effort—something Amelle realized around the same time she realized the thin, reedy wheezing wasn't a far off goat or sheep in distress. It was _her._

Then there was warmth beside her, a hand supporting her head, cool glass pressed to her lips and the welcome, bitter caress of lyrium potion upon her tongue, sliding down as she swallowed, coating her dry, raw throat.

The horrible weight crushing down on her slowly ebbed away and the pressure on her lungs eased. Even her quieted mana was not so oppressively silent. All that remained now was nausea's leaden weight, clawing determinedly in her stomach. Thank the Maker she'd only had tea this morning, and after a desperate, sputtering choke that nearly sent her tumbling away from Fenris (his hands still gripped her shoulders, preventing her from lurching away completely and falling to the floor or worse, out of the hayloft entirely), she didn't even have that any more.

"Hawke," Fenris finally said when the worst had passed. His voice was tight with urgency as he spoke her name, and when Amelle forced herself to look, she saw the very eyes she'd nearly got lost in earlier, glaring with enough heat to stoke the embers of her foolishness and carelessness and _embarrassment_. Amelle grimaced and turned her head away; the taste in her mouth was vile and she imagined her breath wasn't much better. _Yes, let's not subject him to bad breath after you nearly accidentally poisoned yourself_, came the scathing thought_. Very good, Madame Healer._

_"Hawke,_" Fenris said again, his scant patience vanishing so like her mana had moments ago. "What happened?"

Fenris, Amelle noted distantly, did not let his voice tilt upward at the end of a question, like normal people did. His inquiries came out as barely-controlled demands, and she knew if she didn't answer him, didn't tell him _something_ (not the truth, anything but the truth), those questions would only get growlier.

Growlier. Was that even a _word_?

_"Hawke."_

Didn't matter, even if it wasn't. It was still apt.

Amelle took in a deep breath and let it out again. "The pipette," she muttered thickly, closing her eyes because she didn't care to see Fenris' reaction to her explanation. "It was the pipette," she said again, stronger this time. "I used it to measure out the magebane. The residue… there was residue." She didn't say any more for several seconds.

"Which… tampered with its… strength."

Amelle gave a weak nod.

He sighed out a word she didn't recognize, but the cadence of which could not have been anything _but_ a curse.

#

It took far longer for the color to return to Hawke's lips than it had for the poison to leech it away, but in time her fingers were, if not _warm_, then less cold and clammy. Gradually, _too_ gradually, the grey cast faded into something less deathly and Fenris exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

When green eyes opened—hesitantly, and with a flinch that told him her head was pounding—Hawke looked around blearily and then up at him as if she couldn't understand either how they'd come to be there on a bale of hay, or why he held her, her body resting awkwardly against his.

"You must be more careful."

She turned her head away, grimacing. "Don't need to tell me twice."

Once more of Hawke color had returned to her face, Fenris eased her to her feet. Maneuvering the ladder down from the hayloft was managed carefully. Hawke acquiesced to Fenris carrying her down, slung over one shoulder, but the minute they were both on solid ground again, and without a word of warning, Fenris wrapped an arm around Hawke's body, hooking the other beneath her knees and lifted her, ignoring the faintest twinges of complaint from nearly-healed injuries. For a moment, Hawke looked as though she were going to protest, but then, with a tired sigh, she relaxed against him, closing her eyes. The absence of any protest troubled him more than anything else and, setting his jaw, Fenris began the walk back to the house. Hawke's mother didn't appear to be in the garden but—no, there, by the well and easy enough to evade. He still didn't know how much Hawke had told her mother of these… _preparations_ of hers and the less he had to explain, the better. Fenris opened the door, fumbling the knob slightly before shouldering it open and letting it slam behind them. Again Hawke winced.

He tried tempering his concern with every step up the stairway, boots echoing hollowly against the wood. He'd been truthful when he told her he admired her desire to control her abilities. He'd likewise been truthful when he said he trusted her judgment. Intellectually he knew that such… mishaps were bound to happen, and in truth he was relieved to have been nearby when such an incident occurred.

But he did not want to be witness to another such event.

Setting Hawke carefully on the edge of her bed, Fenris dropped to one knee, briskly working first one boot free from her foot and then the other.

"Lie back," he said, standing and turning toward the pitcher of fresh water she kept, pouring a glass. By the time he turned back around, Hawke had curled herself beneath the quilt. She looked small and pale, her short hair plastered dark and damp against her brow.

He pressed the glass into Hawke's slack hand. "Take this." Hawke drank with the tentative eagerness of one desperately thirsty, but afraid of the repercussions that came from drinking too much, too fast. As she drank, Fenris walked from one end of the room to the other and back again, pausing at the open window. He leaned forward, bracing both hands on the windowsill and looked outside. Merrill emerged from the chicken coop with a basket of eggs hanging from one elbow, and Tomas and Kellen were hitching up one of the horses to the plow. Leandra Hawke called out something to Merrill, who answered in kind—the rhythm of the Hawke farm beat like a steady, constant pulse. He did not blame Hawke for wishing to stay; it was the sort of place that beckoned to you, urging you to stay, even if you had no place here.

He found himself wondering exactly what Hawke's place was here. For all she clearly loved the farm, she did not seem to have a… _place_ there. It was none of his concern, but he found himself curious all the same.

Then her soft, hoarse voice broke the silence and scattered his thoughts. "Thanks."

His back to her, Fenris grimaced and shook his head. "You… must not be so careless," he said, the words awkward and thick in his mouth. Hawke offered no reply but a tired sigh.

Several seconds ticked by before she spoke. "I know. I… it was going well. I suppose I got… overconfident." Hawke paused, and for a moment Fenris was certain she was going to say something else. But she only exhaled a long, exhausted sigh. "Thank you," she said again.

Turning his back on the window and the activity below, Fenris looked again at Hawke. She clutched the near empty water glass in both hands, though her eyes drooped shut. Exhaling hard through his nose, he went to the side of her bed and gently extricated the glass from her hands, setting it carefully on the bedside table. "You must rest."

Her only answer was a sleepy hum he believed to be acquiescence.

Once Hawke's breathing slowed and evened, her head lolling tiredly to the side, he dragged a chair to her bedside and, hesitating only briefly, sat upon it, fidgeting a few seconds before clasping his hands and resting his elbows upon his knees. Hawke's color was improving, but slowly, and there was nothing to do but wait for the magebane to leave her system.

He did not enjoy _waiting._

It was still a foreign idea to Fenris, that a mage would willingly undergo such measures for such a purpose—in his experience, mages never worried about concealment, never troubled themselves with anything but gaining power and influence. And yet here Hawke was, voluntarily poisoning herself by inches for that very reason while Fenris watched, doing nothing more useful than handing her bottle after bottle of lyrium potion, knowing it would counteract the poison—it would _only_ counteract it—and knowing there was still more he could do for her.

That was the trouble, wasn't it? Fenris knew perfectly well there was more he could do to assist Hawke, and yet he balked. What good could come of revealing _that_ to her?

What good indeed?

It was not such a revelation, he decided, breathing in and pulling at the power inside him, letting it grow and shift and burn until his skin was alight with it, if Hawke was not awake to observe it. She slept on as Fenris laid white-glowing fingers against the top of her hand, allowing a slow trickle of the lyrium in his skin to phase into her. After a time, the furrow at her brow relaxed. The color returned to her cheeks. Her breath cleared, coming in long, and slow, deep pulls, one after another, after another.

Fenris took his hand away, his markings going dim. Hawke had saved his life. This was not, perhaps, a direct reciprocation of that favor, but it was _something_, and it was enough to make him feel as though he'd at least _begun_ to balance the scales between them.

#

It took less than three days for Amelle to perfect the tincture after that single—thankfully unrepeated—mishap; as she'd guessed, she'd been close to perfecting it, and sailing was smooth from that point on. Her accidental poisoning hadn't even turned out to be as serious as she'd feared. A few hours of rest had her up and around, feeling more than well enough to return to her workbench and resume her trials. Fenris still accompanied her, still assisted, though he was even more taciturn than usual during the process, which Amelle didn't view as a problem, since it was his brief foray into attentiveness that had set the stage for her particularly spectacular bungle. Taciturn was _good._

Once the tincture was ready, once she'd tested it and tested it and tested it again and then one more time for good measure—Maker, she was going to have to do something about the _taste_—they began preparing for the trip in earnest.

The hour was so early the rooster hadn't even split the dim sky with his call. Everything was packed, saddlebags bulging with necessities, supplies strapped within an inch of their lives and attached to every conceivable surface. They had decided it would be quicker to travel without the wagon, which meant stopping at inns when they could and sleeping beneath the stars when they couldn't. Varric had written ahead to a… _colleague_ in Highever who would board the horses while they were in Kirkwall. ("A colleague," Amelle had asked him dubiously, "who _won't_ sell the horses the moment our backs are turned?" The dwarf had promised her Falcon and company would be perfectly safe, and since Varric didn't often _promise,_ Amelle trusted him when he did.)

It was a long ride to Highever, but their route was plotted with known inns and towns and safe places to rest. Unfortunately, and there was no going around it without adding even more days to the trip, one of the plotted rest points was Kinloch Hold. Marshall Greagoir didn't have quite the reputation Meredith Stannard did, but that wasn't any reason to go courting trouble, in Amelle's opinion. She hadn't even really wanted to pack a stave at all, given where they were going and where they had to go through to get there. At least when she traveled with Isabela and Varric and the wagon, they had some control in avoiding templar presence. This trip, though, was a different kettle of fish entirely. But, all things being equal, it was more dangerous (to say nothing of _stupid_) to go without, so she packed Daddy's staff anyway, all wrapped up in leather, at least marginally confident the bladed end would keep people from getting too suspicious.

Hah. She had to walk around with a giant knife to _keep_ people from getting suspicious.

Amelle told herself this would be the perfect opportunity to test the tincture, but those reassurances did nothing to quell the nervous jittering in her stomach, and they hadn't even left _home_ yet.

The screen door squeaked open and her mother's light step clicked softly across the porch as she came to join Amelle at the railing. Neither of them spoke for a moment, but it was her mother who wound up breaking the silence in the end.

"It looks like you're nearly ready to go."

Amelle nodded and let out a sigh. "Should be, and soon. Even Isabela's ready to head out, and you know how she is about mornings."

Mama laughed, shaking her head at Isabela; Tango's pack was as heavy as Agrippa's was light. "Oh, it's the travel she loves. The adventure of it all. Even I can see that."

Amelle nodded again because her mother was right, of course. "I'll remind her of that when she's complaining of saddle sores."

Mama wrapped a warm arm around her shoulders and Amelle couldn't help but lean into it. "Right before you give her something for them."

"Like a boot in the rear?"

Mama gave her shoulder a light slap. "Now, Amelle…"

She tilted her head to the side until it came to rest against her mother's. "I know, I _know._"

They stood in the pre-dawn hush and Amelle watched Fenris commune with Agrippa; the pale horse easily carried the lightest load and if anything she looked grateful for it, nuzzling at his hands, her ears pricked forward. However long it took to get them to Kirkwall, that would be where they parted ways, and Amelle wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that. He'd been… interesting company these few weeks, if nothing else.

She blushed to remember the sight of him, axe held firmly in his hands as he split logs into firewood.

_Very_ interesting company.

"Darling?" Mama's voice broke into Amelle's thoughts and her blush went suddenly flame-hot for a moment.

"…Yes?"

Mama looked out at the horses, Cedric grazing while Falcon stood placidly, eyes closed, tail moving like a slow, swishing pendulum. "I do… understand how difficult this is for you. Don't think for a moment I don't know that."

Varric came sauntering up, Bianca bouncing gently against his back. "Finally got the last of Isabela's gear—"

"You mean the two new dresses she bought in town?"

He coughed into his fist. "You know how she gets when there's treasure involved, Hawke. Anyway, we got Rivaini's stuff packed and strapped. So whenever you're ready…" He looked between mother and daughter for a second and nodded. "I'll just… go make sure Isabela doesn't try rearranging her pack again. Whenever you're ready."

Straightening, Amelle turned back to her mother, drawing in a deep breath and pushing forward a smile. Too many things about this trip had her worried, but that wasn't a burden she was inclined to share right now. "I… I know you do, Mama. And I… think I understand why you asked." She didn't _like _it, and the prospect _scared_ her, but Amelle at least understood her mother's reasoning.

"It's been too long that my babies haven't spoken. No mother wants to see that, sweetling. And no matter how it turns out… well." Mama reached up, running her fingers through Amelle's short hair, her fingertips resting lightly against her temple. "At least you'll have tried." Her mother's voice caught a little and when Amelle turned, she found her mother blinking back tears as dawn pricked the horizon. "Thank you for going, Amelle. And tell Carver—"

"Don't thank me yet," she said softly, leaning close and brushing a kiss across her mother's smooth cheek. "And don't give me any complicated messages to convey. We don't even know if he's going to talk to me or not."

Mama hugged her fiercely. "I think your brother might surprise you if you let him."

_He might,_ Amelle thought, returning the hug. _Let's just hope it's a _good_ sort of surprise and not one of the _bad_ ones._


	10. Chapter 10

"You know, I'm starting to forget why cutting through the Bannorn straight to Highever was a bad idea," remarked Amelle as she dismounted from Falcon's back, her ankles aching with the shock as she landed. If she hadn't been holding onto the worn leather saddle, her ankles might've given way entirely, her knees following suit, and when you got right down to it, a little sit-down didn't seem like a half bad idea. Rolling her shoulders she took a breath, directing tiny bolts of healing to her ankles, knees, back, and more importantly, her back_side._

Varric only snorted and took a long drink of water from the canteen swinging gently from Cedric's pack.

"Anyone else?" she asked with a grin, wiggling her fingers.

"Send some of that my way, Hawke," Isabela replied, tethering Tango to a tree. "Maker's balls, give me a ship on open water any day," she groused, pulling a face as she stretched her aching back. The ache—and Isabela's complaints—vanished after a judicious application of mana, and Isabela flashed Amelle a brilliant smile before dropping herself down on a log and stretching out long legs to cross them at the ankle, bracing her arms behind her and tipping her head up into the mid-afternoon sun. The weather so far had been depressingly usual for a Ferelden spring, and while the heat never edged into what any of them would consider _uncomfortable,_ there hadn't been a day yet left uninterrupted by a storm or shower of some sort. Amelle was starting to suspect she'd begun to mildew.

"The question is a reasonable one, dwarf," Fenris said, dismounting as well and landing far more lightly than Amelle had, running one hand down Agrippa's neck. "The travel time would have been cut in half."

"And when you're not from around here," answered Isabela, eyes closed and basking in the sun's warmth, "that sounds downright sane." She paused, opening one eye lazily and arching an eyebrow at him. "Guess what? It's not."

"What Rivaini's trying to say, elf," Varric explained, walking slowly around the clearing and plucking up handfuls of grass and twigs, twisting the latter around the former as he began to build a small fire, "is the Bannorn's no place for anyone just passing through. Too many different families all fighting with each other. Someone wins and gains some land, then someone else loses and that same land gets lost all over again. I'm surprised they can keep it all straight."

"You're assuming they _can_," drawled Isabela, rolling amber eyes heavenward. "They don't take kindly to visitors and there are already too many stories out there of people going into the Bannorn who don't come out the other side."

This time it was Amelle's turn to scoff. She pulled her own canteen free from Falcon's gear and took a long drink. "You're making it sound like it's the Wilds, you two." At Fenris' puzzled look, Amelle shrugged a shoulder and shook her head. "They're not wrong. Not completely, at any rate. Lots of families out in the Bannorn, and damn near all of them fighting with and amongst each other." With a breath, she flicked her fingers at the pile of kindling; magical heat slowly leeched the green from the grass as it lit, flames further darkening the brown to black as the blades curled over and around the larger pieces of wood, until those too finally caught. "And regardless of my companions' inclination towards exaggeration, and as much as I hate to admit it, it's… not a smart detour. We've traveled through the Bannorn with goods to sell—they welcome traders of all sorts with open arms. But they're less friendly if they catch you on their land without a good reason." The last thing any of them needed was to wander into a squabble between warring families; never could tell when the bullets might start flying.

Still, there were moments when a shorter trip seemed almost worth the attendant danger. It'd been four days since they'd left Lothering, and never seeing signs of life any larger than mining camps so small they barely counted as any more than a place to rest their legs and freshen the horses. One had an inn, but the less said about it (bedbugs at least the size of Amelle's fist, no matter what Varric said about her own propensity for _exaggeration_) the better. If they stopped now for a rest and to water the horses, they'd reach Kinloch Hold in time for dinner.

What nobody was discussing, and Amelle for one was glad of it, was the _other_ reason for stopping hours outside of town. Kinloch Hold was home to the Ferelden Circle and the jurisdiction of Templar Marshal Greagoir, to say nothing of his sizable flock of deputies. As of right now, all of Amelle's earlier tests and trials meant absolutely nothing. As of right now,_ this_ was the only test that mattered.

If pressed, Amelle would have admitted she was nervous about trying the potion when so much rode on the line. She knew, when left to its own devices and not countered with lyrium potion, the tincture appeared to keep her mana undetectable for a solid six hours, usually a little more. Even if it took them three hours to get to the Hold, it'd be another another three before her mana started returning, which left plenty of time for them to get to Kinloch Hold, lodge the horses and find somewhere dry and bedbug-free to sleep for the night.

A good plan, if you overlooked the _while completely surrounded by templars_ part of it.

"And you've never sold you wares in this part of the country?" Fenris asked, sitting upon the ground near the little fire.

"Other than Kinloch Hold, there's not a whole lot _out_ here," Varric explained. "As you've seen. Extensively. There're plenty of other places to stop east of here, though, so that where we stick."

"It's probably something to do with not a whole lot of people wanting to live anywhere too near a Circle. Real life sucks the fun out of living well enough. Living that close to that many miserable people can only suck it out harder and faster, and believe me, no one's more shocked than I that I just used _that_ analogy without meaning anything naughty by it."

Amelle chuckled, brushing at some of the moss on Isabela's log before dropping down next to her. There were better times of year to attempt a journey like this one, but at least the weather was temperate when it wasn't raining, and the wind tasted sweet and clean as it blew through the pines.

"It's only one night, 'Bela."

"Bad sign when _you're_ the one reassuring_ me_, kitten."

Varric snorted. "Hawke, what you should be doing is reminding Rivaini here just how many templars she could take at cards."

Isabela gave a derisive snort. "I bet they don't even _play_ cards. Probably some _law_ against it."

Amelle gave Isabela's arm a little pat. "I'm sure you'll be able to take _someone_ at cards tonight." Isabela brightened at the prospect, but from the corner of her eye she caught Fenris watching her as if he could not possibly comprehend the words coming out of her mouth. "Something to add?"

He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again with a brisk shake of his head. "No. It is nothing."

Amelle was not wholly unconvinced.

#

After an hour's rest, during which they partook of dried meat, brought from the Hawke farm, and filled their canteens from one of Lake Calenhad's tributaries, Hawke tipped her head back and frowned at the sun's placement in the sky. She worried the little blue bottle of magebane potion in her fingers, turning the vial this way and that, rubbing her thumb along the smooth side, her brow furrowed in thought. Before Fenris could begin to imagine the course of her thoughts, however, her frown smoothed away and she exhaled a short, resigned sigh.

"We won't be doing ourselves any favors if we delay any longer," she said suddenly to no one in particular, dousing the fire with a quick flash of frost and ice that left only black-charred kindling steaming and smoldering at turns. And then—quickly, as if she wished to act before she could talk herself out of it—Hawke twisted the cork from the tiny blue bottle and took a swallow of the liquid within. Her features twisted in a grimace, and after she swallowed she spat upon the ground, then sent Fenris a wry look.

"The taste isn't getting any better."

"Did you expect it to?" he asked.

"Thought at least I'd _get used_ to it."

"You'd do well to remind yourself that it's _poison_ you're talking about, sweet thing," Isabela reminded her, swinging herself into the saddle.

Predictably, as the potion did its work, Hawke's color drained from her face, reminding Fenris fleetingly of their first meeting—even then she'd been as pale as parchment beneath her face paint. And that had been before she'd started using magebane at all. He caught himself wondering how a spirit healer's mana was tied to their health in general—but with a jerk he shut away that train of thought; he'd aided Hawke through her trials, and now that she had a working potion, the effects of said potion on her were none of his affair. It did what it was supposed to do—quiet her mana—and that was what mattered.

Hawke tucked away the bottle down the front of her drab traveling shirt and made a move to heave herself into Falcon's saddle. Varric, already astride Cedric, started to dismount, but Fenris shook his head at the dwarf, striding to Hawke's side. The smile she gave him was both grateful and sheepish.

"That obvious, huh?"

"You forget," he said, dropping to one knee and lacing his fingers, palms up. "I witnessed what effects the previous iterations of this potion had on you—among them, physical weakness."

Two bright points of color flamed to life at her cheeks. "Ah. Well. Thanks." She hesitated only briefly before stepping into his hands and letting him boost her up into the saddle, sighing out a breath of what could have been relief or exhaustion once she had her seat.

Fenris turned back to Agrippa in time to see Varric and Isabela exchange a curious, pointed look, the nature of which sent irritation chasing beneath his skin. Setting his jaw, he looked away and opted to behave as if he hadn't seen the silent exchange, pulling himself with a grunt up into Agrippa's saddle.

The ride to Kinloch Hold was uneventful. They kept their pace slow, and though Hawke insisted she felt fine—her grip on her reins and the furrow at her brow put the lie to that assertion—the dwarf waved a hand and said the slower pace was better for the horses and that they'd reach Kinloch Hold in plenty of time for Isabela to fleece some of Greagoir's deputies into a game of cards.

Having chosen to ride his mare behind Falcon, Fenris nudged her forward until he was riding alongside Hawke and her horse. The hat she wore cast her face into shadow, but even that did nothing to conceal how very pale she was.

Green eyes glanced askance and a not entirely amused smile twisted at her lips. "Maker, I must look like death if you're concerned," she said in an undertone. "Considering you've seen me at my very worst."

"Are you…" the question stuck on his tongue, heavy and awkward. "Are you well?" Grimacing, he amended, "All things… considered, are you—"

She laughed, which he hadn't expected. "All right. From here on out if you ask me how I'm feeling, I'll just assume the 'all things considered' is a given." At his nod, she swallowed and adjusted her grip on the reins. "I don't… like the feeling," she said in an undertone. "It's—it feels _unnatural._ Everything's too quiet, too still. It's different from the times I'd drained my mana magically. I have to keep reminding myself everything's fine." Her lips twitched. "Fine as they can be smack dab in the lion's den, at any rate."

"I doubt Kirkwall will be much better," he pointed out.

"Maker, tell me about it," Hawke replied, rubbing Falcon's neck absently. "I'm trying to look at this as—as practice for Kirkwall. Greagoir, at least, they say's tough but fair. Stannard…" She trailed off, shaking her head. Then, after a moment, her expression hardened with resolve. "With a little bit of care and an extraordinary amount of luck, I won't cross her path."

Fenris found himself hoping—unexpectedly—it was so.

As they'd expected, they reached Kinloch Hold very near the dinner hour. It was a busy town, bigger than Fenris had expected, and nowhere near as bleak as Isabela's opinion on the place had led him to believe. When he chanced a look at Hawke, however, her expression was perfectly blank. He saw nothing of the concerns she'd expressed to him, no indication of fear aside from the way her fingers curled tighter around the reins she held. The hotel they found was better appointed than any of them had expected, and once they'd made sure the horses were seen to, they carried their packs and saddlebags inside.

They found themselves in the cool dimness of the hotel's front room, one that was surprisingly well-appointed and bordering on lavish, with a shining wood floor and a massive oaken desk at least waist-high. The late afternoon light cascaded through the windows, peppered with dust motes, bathing the wood with a golden cast and throwing into relief its intricately carved front and sides. It was far finer than he—than any of them, he was certain, if the look on Varric's face was anything to go by—was expecting.

It was there Hawke's blank mask cracked. Her step faltered, and Fenris—who believed at first this reaction had to do with the magebane running through her veins—placed a steadying hand beneath her elbow. The contact startled her enough that she turned wide, shocked eyes at him. And there, through that crack, _fear_ flashed, bright and sharp as any bolt of lightning.

He frowned at her, but before Fenris could speak, could even form the words _what is the matter,_ a toneless female voice slid through the air.

"Welcome to The Kinloch Grand Hotel. My name is Clara. How may I assist you?"

When he glanced back at the desk—and now the woman standing behind it—he found the speaker to be a woman with flame red hair pulled back into a plait that had then been coiled into a knot at the base of her skull. And there, in the center of her forehead, was the image of a sunburst, branded into her skin.

Of them all, it was Varric who recovered from his surprise first, sauntering forward with a smile as he began arranging rooms for them. Fenris had not had much occasion to deal extensively with any Tranquil; the practice had been outlawed in the Imperium, and by virtue of that he'd always thought it a worthwhile sentence for mages unable or unwilling to control their power.

But now—now, as he watched the exchange between Varric and the desk clerk, even he became… unnerved by the woman's quietude, the blankness of her gaze, the absolute precision with which she worked, looking first through the ledger of rooms—of which four were available—and then assigning each of them to their room, providing keys for each of the assigned rooms. She did not respond to any of Varric's conversation beyond providing direct answers to questions he asked and confirming or denying any observations he made. Hawke, in the meantime, had recaptured her neutral mask; he released his grip on her elbow, though Fenris suspected it was not his imagination her face looked even paler than before. When he chanced a look in Isabela's direction, he found her expression to be every bit as impassive as Hawke's.

The desk clerk's hand hovered over a small bell as Varric distributed the room keys. "Do you require assistance with your bags?"

"No," Hawke blurted, her voice tight despite the smile at her lips. But upon closer examination Fenris found her smile to be every bit as tight as her voice. He was certain he wasn't imagining the taut line of her jaw, either, which gave every indication she was clenching her teeth. "No, thank you," she said more calmly, recovering her aplomb. "I'm sure we'll manage."

The clerk didn't press or insist; she only nodded and pulled her hand back to her side. "Very well. Please do not hesitate to alert any of the staff if there is anything you require to make your stay more enjoyable."

With these words, Fenris exhaled without even realizing he'd been holding his breath at all. The cool metal key was pressed securely against his palm—there would likely be a bath by day's end, and a meal even sooner than that.

"You okay?" Varric asked Hawke as he sidled up next to her. Her only reply was a terse nod as they slowly made their way through the hotel's front room and further on into the building, which opened up to an even larger area. To one side was a surprisingly vast restaurant with pale gold carpeting and dark wood tables covered with pristine white tablecloths; decidedly appetizing smells wafted out, and from somewhere within a piano played a tinkling Orlesian tune. White-jacketed waiters moved from table to table, all of them wearing identical brands upon their foreheads; Fenris snuck a sidelong glance at Hawke, who appeared not to have noticed that staffing detail. And there, on the other side was a—

"Maker's blood," Hawke breathed in delight, staring at the grated doors, her earlier discomfiture if nor forgotten, then at least shelved for the moment. "Is that an _elevator_?"

"Looks to be," Varric replied, quite obviously approving of this particular amenity. "Couldn't be happier to see it, either. The fewer steps these legs have to climb, the better."

Then the doors pulled upon. A young man of no more than eighteen manned the elevator controls. At the sight of the sunburst brand upon his forehead, Hawke stopped cold.

"I'll take the stairs," she said, taking no pains to conceal the tension in her voice.

The look Varric shot her was shrewd, but it was Isabela who reminded her, "We're on the fourth floor, kitten."

"I'll be fine. Go. I don't— just go. I'll take the stairs."

Isabela's frown deepened. "You weren't feeling well earlier," she said, a pointed note in her voice.

Hawke drew in a deep breath and let it out. "I'll be fine."

"Which floor, sers?" asked the young man, tilting his head in an eerie endeavor of something that might have been curiosity once.

"Go ahead," Hawke pressed. "I'll be—"

Stifling a sigh, Fenris took the saddlebag from where it hung heavily over her arm. "Go on," he told Varric and Isabela, who exchanged a concerned glance. "Go," he said again. "I will use the stairs as well."

She blinked at him. "…I—what are you—"

"If you wish to take the stairs," he said, likewise relieving Hawke of the pack slung upon her shoulder, "no amount of cajoling will change that."

"Elf's not wrong about _that,_" muttered Varric as he and Isabela stepped into the small room. The grated doors creaked as the elevator operator pulled them shut. A louder creak and a groan shuddered up from below, the force of it so strong Fenris was certain the floor trembled.

Some novelties, he decided, watching the small compartment carrying Isabela and Varric drift upward, were better off _remaining_ novelties.

Beside him, Hawke blinked again, her expression edging into affront. "Did you just call me—I think you just called me _stubborn._"

"You are unwell," he said evenly, choosing—he thought—_judiciously _to refrain from commenting. Then Fenris turned upon his heel and strode briskly toward the red-carpeted stairway, "And as such, it is foolish to walk such a distance alone."

Hawke trailed behind him. "I am not _stubborn._"

"As you say."

"I'm _not._"

He turned then, bracing one hand against the thick, polished banister, and glowered down at Hawke—she was still pale, her movements still too slow, too methodical to be natural—and leaned forward as he gritted out the words, "You are _unwell_. And considering the circumstances under which you find yourself unwell, I would suggest a moment of consideration before you make such a statement again. You have likewise chosen to walk four flights of stairs to your room. You know your own mind, and that is nothing to be ashamed of, but _do not_ attempt to direct phrases to me like _healer's orders_ and expect me to agree blindly when you imply you aren't stubborn. You _are,_" then, lowering his voice, he added, "and it is the reason you have lived as long as you have." And before he could say anything more that could have been to his detriment, Fenris turned again and pushed on up the stairs, his bag and Hawke's in hand.

Hawke didn't speak, and Fenris didn't look behind him again until they reached the fourth floor. There was no sign of Isabela or Varric, which either meant the elevator had delivered them safely to their floor and they were already ensconced in their rooms, or… not. Given the relative quiet and noteworthy lack of terrified screaming, Fenris deduced it was the former.

He turned his head a fraction. "Which room?"

A pause. "Forty-three."

With a nod, he carried her things to the door bearing that number engraved on a shining brass plate and waited for Hawke to twist the key in the lock. The heavy wooden door swung open silently and he carried Hawke's belongings into the room and deposited them on the foot of her bed. The room itself was as comfortably furnished as the rest of the establishment had led him to believe it would be. The bed looked comfortable enough that Fenris suspected the mattress owed its plumpness to goose-feathers; several equally as plump pillows rested against a shining brass headboard. Shining dark wood furniture sat solidly in the room, the whole of it smelling of polish and lavender, a vase of which sat upon the bedside table.

The door shut with a quiet click. When Fenris looked up, it was to find Hawke standing with her arms crossed protectively over her body, her gaze fixed steadily on the middle distance. Color stained her cheeks.

"Hawke—"

"You're right," she blurted. "I—you're right." She reached up to pull the wide-brimmed hat from her head and tossed it on the bed, raking her fingers through her hair once before wrapping her arms around herself again. "You're right and I'm not going to pretend you're not."

She paused, though it did not sound to Fenris like the sort of pause that invited comment, so he withheld, choosing instead to watch her clench and unclench her jaw, a scowl darkening her features while she wrestled with what to say.

After what seemed like endless minutes of silence, Hawke lifted her gaze and met his eyes. "When I was small," she began, taking a breath and letting it out, but never pulling her arms away from her body, "my father—when I would misbehave, my father would…" She tipped her head back, biting down on her lip. Finally she closed her eyes and addressed the ceiling. "When I would misbehave, he'd say, in this deep, booming voice, he'd—he'd say, _Do you know what templars do to mischievous, troublesome children?_—and of course I knew the answer—_Tranquil_—and I always laughed when I said it. It was like… some… monster under my bed I didn't believe in."

With slow, deliberate movements, she unfolded her arms and walked to the window overlooking Kinloch Hold's main street, where men and women walked to and fro, carriages and carts clacked along, each with its own unique hoofbeat rhythm. "I always—it's different when you know something's possible in theory…" She leaned forward, bracing her hands against the windowsill. "It's so _different_ when you see theory put into practice." After several more seconds, she looked up again, her expression flayed raw.

"You were… a child."

"I was, then." She shrugged, straightening and dropping her arms so they hung limply by her sides. "So what's my excuse now?"

"Now you are being faced with a reality you did not realize before," he told her. "Now you have the choice to behave like a child or an adult."

"I suppose it's better for all of us I didn't give in to the urge to run out screaming," she murmured, a faintly self-deprecating smile twisting her lips.

"I would say that's accurate."

Exhaling deeply, Hawke brought her fist to her chest, pressing against her breastbone; it took Fenris a moment to realize her hand rested against the very spot where the bottle of magebane hid for the moment. "It's a funny feeling, realizing your fears were justified." Her brows twitched together. "I don't recommend it."

But Fenris' own fears had long since been justified.

His answering smile was a mirthless one and he turned for the door. "All will be well. You are proficient in your craft and have taken precautions. There is little more you can do but remain vigilant."

Her smile was a tired one, worn and pinched around the edges, not quite meeting her eyes, and Fenris suspected it was only partly due to the potion she'd taken.

"Sometimes, Fenris, it feels like vigilance is all I've got."


	11. Chapter 11

Amelle hated Kinloch Hold.

Granted, she hadn't been looking forward to the visit from the start, and while the town was larger and more bustling and _nicer_ than she'd expected—or than the mining camps they'd traveled through on their way here had led her to believe—in it she also saw her worst fears, fears that had seemed amorphous and unreal as a child, turning insidiously solid and _real_ as she'd grown up. Fears she'd, eventually, learned to cope with. Insofar as "humor" and "denial" were coping mechanisms.

Her father had told her about the Tranquil. He'd been a Circle mage once, thought it didn't have much to recommend it, and so had escaped. He'd told her stories, of course. Daddy had always enjoyed a good yarn. Most of his tales were cautionary ones, meant to provide lessons—valuable ones—for his two mage daughters.

And now that old advice came back to her: _Don't get involved, Mely._

She'd never wanted _less_ to get involved anywhere, with anything, and for as hungry as she was, and how utterly and desperately she wished for a bath, she would have been entirely content to remain in her room until it was time to leave.

Shaking her head, she crossed the room where Fenris had dropped her things on the bed. Her lyrium, she'd decided, would be safest if it was hidden in her bedroll, which she now pulled off the foot of the bed and stowed underneath. She was reasonably sure templars didn't wander through guests' rooms specifically looking for contraband materials, but it was still reassuring to know her lyrium potion was tucked away and kept out of sight, rather than clinking around in her bags where anyone might accidentally (or not) happen upon them. She had other, more practical potions on hand, but none of them magical or suspicious—ointment for the horses, restoratives for the humans. Nothing at all that might cause anyone to lift an eyebrow at her. But no, lyrium potion was safely hidden, and there wasn't a speck of contraband to be seen anywhere. Good.

Rummaging through her pack, Amelle tugged free a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt, setting them out so they'd have time to air out a bit—with all the rain, everything smelled a bit… _damp_—before the next day's departure. Then she rocked back on her heels and surveyed the rest of the clothing she'd brought. There wasn't much, but maybe she could—

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts and sent Amelle starting out of her skin.

"Hawke," Isabela called, the wood muffling her voice. "Open up, kitten, I've got a surprise for you."

She opened the door to reveal the woman in question, her traveling clothes every inch as sweat-dark and dust-crusted as Amelle's own. She was smiling, though, and while Isabela's smile often worried Amelle (more often than not this was the case), the key she held, dangling from a slender chain, piqued her interest.

"I got us _baths_, kitten," came the smug, self-satisfied announcement. "Get your clothes."

Amelle blinked at her. "Baths?"

Isabela's smile widened. "You heard me. Baths."

She blinked. Again. "Baths," she echoed. Again.

Amelle's stomach gave a sudden sideways lurch, her mouth working in silence a moment as she glanced over Isabela's shoulder into the deserted hallway and wrestled with all the different ways she could tell Isabela how and why _that_ was the worst idea she'd had in a very long and storied history of _immensely bad ideas_. "I… I thought, maybe—"

"If you say, kitten, you were thinking about spending the whole night in your room…" Isabela stepped forward, letting the door shut behind her, the slam both punctuating her statement and filling it with no end of unvoiced threats.

"I…" But Amelle's voice cracked on the syllable; she swallowed away the dryness—tried to, in any case. The problem was—well, there were several problems, but the _main_ problem was all of Kinloch Hold loomed over and around Amelle like a silent chorus of unvoiced threats, so Isabela's particular, _familiar_ brand of threat had very little effect on Amelle. "I—" she began again, then tossing up her hands as she turned to stride to the end of the room. "This was a bad idea. It was _such_ a bad idea, and now we're here, waist-deep in _bad idea_ and that's too damned deep to haul ourselves out now without looking suspicious." She brought one hand up and pretended not to notice the way it trembled as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Tranquil, Isabela," she breathed. "I didn't know there'd be—"

"None of us _knew_, Hawke," Isabela broke in. "Not even Varric—you saw his face. And if anyone ought to have known—"

"If anyone ought to've known the whole staff in this whole stupid hotel was Tranquil, it was Varric?" Well, yes, Isabela had a point there. "Maker's blood," she breathed, pinching harder at her nose and walking in a small, tight, controlled circle. The whole—the _whole_ _staff's_ _Tranquil_."

"We've noticed. Trust me."

"You don't—don't you understand what that _means_?" It meant there were a whole lot of people, enough to man a one heck of a big fancy hotel—people who'd once been mages, mages who'd been cut off from the Fade.

Daddy had always said—and Amelle agreed now, oh, she agreed—death was a kinder fate than the Rite of Tranquility offered.

"Not as intimately as you do, I'd wager," Isabela answered, her voice low as she shifted her weight and crossed her arms over her chest. "Look. All I know for sure is what the kid in the elevator told us. This is paid work they're doing; most of it's sent back to the families they left—makes sense, most of them probably came from farmers and merchant families who lost a warm body that might've otherwise plowed a field or learned a trade. It's not ideal, but it's a damn sight better than some of what I've seen—you too, I'll remind you. Or have you already forgotten that sweet little mining couple you so gave so charitably to back in Ostagar?"

Amelle winced.

"No, I wouldn't have thought you'd forgotten." Isabela heaved a mighty sigh, crossing the room in a thump-jangle of boots and buckles and sat on Amelle's bed, sending her a perfectly level look, void of any jest or joke. "We're all being careful. I promise you that. But part of being careful enough to blend in means doing something you absolutely do not want to do, because the opposite would look even more suspicious. So. That all said, I propose we take full advantage of the two tubs of _gloriously_ hot water I procured for us—indoor hot water, might I add, kitten—and then we are going to get dressed—you in that adorable yellow number you don't think I know you bought back in Lothering—and then we are going to have a delicious dinner, and afterwards Varric and I are going to see if there's a proper card game going on in this town, while you and your elf—"

"He's not _my_—" Amelle began to protest, feeling her face go suddenly, uncomfortably hot.

Isabela just arched an eyebrow, taking no pains whatsoever to hide her little smirk at Amelle's discomfiture. "While you and _that_ elf decide how to entertain yourselves for the evening. If you're looking for suggestions, though," she added with a wink, "I've got plenty."

Amelle shot Isabela a scowl as she started going through her things, pulling free the yellow dress in question. Annoyances and innuendoes aside, Isabela… had a point. "Yes," she muttered as she rummaged through her pack, "that's partly what I'm afraid of."

#

The Kinloch Grand did indeed have baths. Indoor ones, with hot water, as Isabela had promised. Each floor had on it a private bathing room available for reservation, and a private water closet; evidently it was sheer dumb luck Isabela had managed to reserve a bath for them on such short notice and so close to dinner. The room itself was larger than Amelle might've otherwise expected, with high ceilings and pale yellow walls. Tall, narrow windows covered with gossamer curtains let in the late afternoon light and ornate sconces held flickering lamps that turned the waning sunlight positively golden; the two deep, copper tubs in the center of the room _gleamed_ under the light.

Amelle loved a good bath, and considered herself an expert—a connoisseur, even—on the subject. And despite the… extenuating circumstances, this one, in her considerable opinion, had potential to be one of the best.

The bathing attendant—a middle-aged Tranquil woman, whose ash-blond hair was cut to her shoulders, the fringe across her forehead almost successfully hiding the sunburst branded into the skin—mixed salts and oils for the steaming water, a combination meant to soothe a weary traveler's aching muscles. Amelle sat on a divan situated against one wall, watching the woman work. The oils and salts mingled with the steam in the air and Amelle breathed in the scent of embrium. No doubt about it, she was a weary traveler with aching muscles. Even if she'd had a drop of mana to apply to that ache, she wouldn't have dared do so. But the embrium's presence in the mixture was… promising. If nothing else it implied the attendant knew something about herbalism, at least, which left Amelle… quietly surprised.

The woman poured the bath mixture into the two soaking tubs, side by side and separated by a folding privacy screen, turning away discreetly as Amelle and Isabela removed piece after travel-filthy piece of clothing and lowered themselves into the tubs. From the other side of the privacy screen, Isabela swore.

"Is there a problem?" asked the attendant.

"No," Amelle managed, not quite able to keep the groan from her voice. "No problems here. None whatsoever."

There was a drippy splash from the other side of the screen, followed by a long sigh. "Sweet thing, we are entirely problem-free right now."

No doubt about it, two copper tubs filled with pure _bliss_ wouldn't have felt better, and Amelle closed her eyes, exhaling a deep, exhausted sigh as she tipped her head back against the edge of the tub.

"Mind doing away with this?" Isabela asked, flicking a fingernail against the screen, water droplets splashing on the floor. "We're all friends here. Right, kitten?"

Amelle only rolled her eyes and sunk further down in the bath, letting the warmth soak into her skin. "Please excuse my friend," she mumbled. "She forgets sometimes the word _propriety_ exists at all."

"I haven't _forgotten._ I just don't _care._"

"It is no trouble, miss," replied the attendant, collapsing the screen. She turned to them both, hands loosely clasped as she inclined her head. "If you wish to make use of the laundry service, I will collect your clothes and have them cleaned and returned to you by morning."

Amelle's brows nearly reached her hairline. "You can _do_ that?" she asked as Isabela's head fell back against the tub's rim with a metallic thud, exclaiming loudly, "Maker's balls, _yes._"

"Wait," Amelle said, gripping the edge of the tub and peering down as the the attendant began collecting their clothes. "How?" she asked, hopefully tempering wary suspicion from her tone, leaving only innocent curiosity. "How are you able to get them back so quickly?" She wasn't sure she really wanted to hear the answer. In any case, she was pretty sure she already knew it.

The attendant glanced up briefly as she explained—and there was no way Amelle was ever going to get used to that slow, measured speech, the tone of voice calmer even than the stillest pond on a windless day. "Apprentice mages who have come into their skills are enlisted to apply heat to the clothes to dry them more promptly. They learn to better control their connection to the Fade with such exercises."

Arching an eloquent eyebrow, Isabela drawled, "And if a twitchy apprentice turns someone's trousers to ash?"

"The hotel replaces the garment," the woman explained. "But such occurrences are rare."

Amelle swallowed hard. That was a trick she was already well-acquainted with, and made frequent use of herself, but to hear it put that way…

She chewed lightly on her lip. "So… so mages work here in… in the hotel as well?"

Holding the bundle of clothes tightly to her chest, the woman nodded. "Those who show promise do. Apprentices with control over fire or ice heat the water for baths or work in the kitchens. Those versed in earth magic help tend the grounds. Those more experienced who demonstrate appropriate aptitude train in the kitchens."

"I… see," Amelle replied. From the corner of her eye she caught Isabela sending her a warning look and she tried not to sigh.

"You'll have to excuse my friend," Isabela said, fairly oozing sincerity. "She's a bit"—she lowered her voice conspiratorially— "_put off_ by mages. You know."

Of course, the attendant exhibited nothing of surprise, affront, or apology. She only nodded. "Many guests are. However, none of the staff wish to be the cause of any discomfiture."

"I'm—I'll be fine. You needn't… worry about it." Amelle couldn't quite say the words without cringing, but the attendant simply nodded, made a note of their room-numbers, and left them to their privacy, closing the door behind her.

Once they were alone, Isabela threw a glare over the edge of the tub. "You really need to work a little harder at _fitting in,_" she hissed.

Looking pained, Amelle sunk down further in the water, cupping some in her hands and splashing her face. "You're right." She slipped beneath the water's surface and ran her fingers through her gritty hair before surfacing again, wiping the dripping water out of her eyes. "I just—"

"I know," said Isabela, and Amelle believed her. "_Trust _me, kitten, I know." The ensuing silence was punctuated only by soft splashing as they scrubbed away what couldn't have amounted to anything less than a full ton of sweat and grime. Finally, Isabela spoke up again.

"Just so you know, I'm almost afraid to ask, but _have_ you got anything like a plan for when you get to Kirkwall?"

"I suppose," Amelle answered, running a short lock of hair between two fingers. The strands squeaked. "Some people might loosely refer to it as a plan."

"Some people?"

"People not you. Or Varric." She made a face. "Or… me."

"How utterly unreassuring," she murmured, unimpressed. "What you're saying is you have no plan."

Amelle flicked one finger at the water's surface, making it ripple. "Let's be honest—I don't even know how long it's going to take to _find_ Carver. Kirkwall's a big city, and my brother's just one man."

Isabela let out a sigh that fairly thrummed with disappointment. "You have _no plan._"

"It's a work in progress," Amelle countered defensively, staring up at the ceiling. "Get to Kirkwall in one piece. There you go, that's phase one." She looked over to find Isabela arching a skeptical eyebrow at her and then, with a sigh, Amelle returned her gaze to the ceiling. "Considering I half expect Carver to refuse to see me at all, having a plan of any sort feels like courting trouble."

"Which you are clearly _not_ doing right now." Sarcasm dripped from her words and hovered in the air. _Heavily._ "So, concerning your complete lack of anything remotely resembling a plan—"

"Not getting killed is a lovely plan, Isabela," retorted Amelle mildly, dipping her fingers in the water and flicking some at Isabela. "I'm quite attached to it."

"The first thing you're going to need to do is find somewhere to stay," she said, going on as if Amelle hadn't spoken. "Depending on how long we're stuck there—"

Amelle sat up, sending the water sloshing to one end of the tub. She stared at Isabela, blinking once. Twice. Three times. "Wait. You're… staying?"

"Unless I run across a schooner with a morally lax crew waiting for a woman with a firm hand to come along? Yes."

Amelle tried not to let her relief show; she suspected she failed fantastically.

"You're going to need a source of income, too," Isabela reminded her.

At least that part was easy. "Lucky for us I have a marketable skill."

"A point in your favor. Have you brought along any of your supplies?"

Amelle shrugged and water sluiced down her shoulders. "I brought a few things. I can buy or improvise the rest."

"And lo," Isabela said with a satisfied wink and grand sweep of one dripping arm. "A plan was born." Settling back in the tub, she closed her eyes and let out a satisfied little hum. "We can work out the details on the way."

"So I need a place to live and a job. How is that a _plan_?"

"Consider it parts two and three following _not getting killed._"

Several moments passed in silence, tight, knotted muscles slowly releasing as the past few days melted away in embrium-scented steam. Sleeping would have been unwise, but it was so very tempting. Amelle slid down in the tub until her chin touched the water.

"Tell me something."

Rolling her shoulders—and her eyes—Amelle let out a low groan, flexing her calves and wiggling her toes in the warm water. "I will tell you _anything_ if it means peace and quiet for the next ten minutes." But when she turned her gaze to the other tub, it was to find Isabela, one arm resting on the ledge of the tub, her chin resting atop her wrist, watching Amelle. Her expression was inscrutable.

"How hard are you going to try to get Carver to talk to you?"

Well, shit. She hadn't been expecting _that._ Amelle… didn't answer right away, in part because it was a question she'd asked herself more than once since she'd decided she was going to make the trip to Kirkwall in the first place.

"I don't know," she finally answered. "It depends on how vehemently he doesn't want to see me. He was… angry when he left. Could be he's less angry. Could be he's just the opposite of that. Time's a funny thing. People change when it passes."

Isabela's pause was a thoughtful one. Troublingly so. Amelle opened one eye and looked over at her. "Something to share?"

"Just thinking." She pursed her lips in something too melancholy to be a smile. "About time. Mistakes. How they shape us. Make us who we are."

Amelle's answering laugh was just as mirthless. "And this does have the potential to be a whopper of a mistake."

"Didn't say I thought you were the one who made the mistake, sweet thing." But before Amelle could comment, Isabela's expression slid like quicksilver into one far more mischievous, and far more familiar. "But _speaking_ of mistakes—and whatever is the exact opposite of the word—talk to me about the broody elf."

"How does Fenris have anything to do with mistakes?"

"You were the one who invited him to stay after he had his hand in your chest. Don't think I've forgotten that little scene."

"A scene that was never repeated," Amelle reminded her. "And there's nothing to tell. He was useful around the farm and he helped me a bit in mixing the tincture." What Amelle didn't tell Isabela, what she absolutely _would not_ tell Isabela, were the times he caught her before she fell, or how swiftly he administered lyrium potion when she required it; she would not relay how often and how effortlessly he'd carried her from the barn up to her own bed, or about the warmth of his shoulder against her cheek, or the way he'd worked the boots from her feet before pulling her quilt up to her chin. Amelle had no intention of sharing with Isabela how Fenris had stayed, standing by the window like a sentry until she'd finally given in to slumber's pull.

"Well?" the other woman prompted.

"Well nothing," replied Amelle primly, closing her eyes and sinking further down into the water; it had started to cool and she wanted nothing more than to soak up every last bit of heat she possibly could. "He thinks I'm competent at my craft, whatever that means. I suspect it means he tolerates me; it's not as if we're friends."

"Mmm."

Amelle allowed herself a wry, unsurprised chuckle. "You disagree."

"Last time I checked, men who found women _competent at their craft_ did not make a habit of offering said woman a leg up onto her horse."

"He knows the side-effects of the potion, Isabela. I daresay he knows them as well as I do. He probably expected me to—"

"_Want_ to take the stairs?"

Amelle snorted. "Considering he _scolded_ me on the stairs, I'm not so sure I'd read too far into that if I were you."

"Ooh, a _scolding,_" Isabela purred, smirking. "You naughty, naughty thing, you. Mmm, you've got to love a man not afraid to—"

"I don't have to do anything of the sort. In any case, I have no doubt he'll be glad to be free of me the second we set foot in Kirkwall."

The sound Isabela made was a noncommittal one. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

"And I have a feeling you're going to find yourself disappointed when we do."

By the time the water had gone cold, and after Isabela had groused over Amelle being entirely incapable of warming it up again, they emerged from their tubs, drying off with the thick towels hanging perfectly straight on the nearby racks. Amelle tugged the privacy screen open again and made a face at Isabela when she laughed.

"I only look when I know you won't catch me," she teased.

Amelle let out a snort. "All the more reason to guard my modesty, don't you think?"

"Guard away, kitten, if you think it'll do any good."

The attendant had hung the "butter yellow number," as Isabela had taken delight in calling it, on Amelle's side of the little room. The steam from the bath had done a… fair job of easing away the worst of the wrinkles. It was every bit as floaty and impractical as it had been when she'd first seen it, though still likely wasn't half as fancy as what any of the other women would be wearing downstairs, even if the sleeves were shorter and the décolletage a little more daring than Amelle typically favored. It hardly mattered; she'd made sure to pack as lightly as she could—there simply wasn't room for steamer trunks and hatboxes.

This was, as far as she was concerned, a dress perfectly suitable to eat dinner in.

"You're going down like that?" asked Isabela, sitting at a delicately carved vanity table placed in the corner of the room; her hair was twisted up with an artless sort of grace Amelle felt quite certain she'd never be able to imitate, even if she didn't wear her hair so short. A richly enameled vanity case—a gift from an Antivan lover, or so Isabela had said—sat open before her and even now a smudge of rouge darkened her fingertips, inches away from her cheek.

"I… yes? I know the dress is a little—"

"The dress is fine, kitten. But _you_ look like death half warmed over."

"And you have _such_ a way with compliments."

"Sit."

"I'm s—"

"Sit."

With no small bit of trepidation, and eyeing Isabela's enameled case (and all the items within) the whole while, Amelle sat.

#

The prospect of sleep had appealed to Fenris far more than a bath, and so, upon reaching his room, he took a short nap before sending down a request for a basin of hot water, with plans to wash up—at least perfunctorily—prior to his meal. He had no idea what plans Hawke or the others had made, but it hardly mattered—he did not assume himself to be included in them. As such, his plans were to dine and return to his room to sleep; there likely would not be another feather bed until Highever, and he planned to take advantage of the opportunity now presented to him.

Which only meant it was all the more surprising when the knock at his door came the very moment he turned away from the basin of lukewarm, dingy water and shrugged into a clean shirt—three sharp raps that made Fenris go perfectly still. He was not expecting anyone, not even an attendant to retrieve the basin of dirty water.

How many times had he been in this very position? How many times had he been faced with no choice but to abandon a soft bed in favor of flight?

Too many times.

"A moment," he said just loudly enough to be heard, buttoning his shirt and moving silently to his bedside. His belongings lay in a jumble, but at one end of that tangle was his gunbelt. With slow, purposeful movements, he pulled the revolver free from one holster and approached the door, his thumb resting on the hammer.

"It's me, Fenris." There was a slightly awkward pause. "Amelle Hawke," the voice added, somewhat sheepishly. With a sigh that was more than part relief, Fenris took his thumb from the hammer and opened the door.

When he did so, it was to discover Hawke on the other side, looking… nothing at all like she had earlier. When he'd aired his frustration at her on the stairwell, she'd stared up at him, whatever shock or surprise his outburst may have brought doing nothing to temper her pale, drawn, grime-smudged features, pinched with equal parts discomfort and worry. Now, though, she looked… as she _ought_ to have looked; the color was returned to her cheeks, a jeweled pin in her damp, dark hair, shining under the flickering lanterns in the hall. The pale yellow dress she wore… suited her; its neckline revealed the column of her throat, the delicate indent of her clavicle. She wore no other adornment than the pin in her hair, but neither did she require one.

It was at that point Fenris wondered when exactly he'd started to pay particular attention to the line of Hawke's throat or the smoothness of her skin, and why he was doing so _now_.

Hawke looked down at the gun in his hand, arching an eyebrow at it. "Not the welcome I was _expecting,_ I'll admit."

He shrugged a shoulder, turning away and replacing the gun in its holster before fastening the belt about his waist. "I was not expecting a visitor," he explained as he finished buttoning his shirt to the neck. He shrugged into the green waistcoat he'd brought—the only waistcoat he'd brought—then wound a cravat around his neck and tied it. "Is there something you require?"

She wound her purse's drawstring around her index finger. "You… _were_ going to eat, weren't you?"

"Yes," he answered evenly, fingers deftly buttoning the vest.

"I… thought you might like to join us." She stepped over the threshold into his room, hands clasped in front of her. A small tasseled purse dangled from one wrist. "You don't have to if you don't want to, or if you've got… other plans? I don't want you to feel oblig—"

"I have no other plans," he answered, turning to face Hawke once again.

"Good." Her answering smile was hesitant but genuine, and the quality of it made Fenris wonder if Hawke yet knew what awaited her downstairs in the dining area. He began to think it unlikely as she went on to say, "Varric secured us a table already; they'll be downstairs…" But then her smile dimmed into bemusement. "Fenris? Is… something wrong?"

Fenris hadn't realized his own expression had shifted to betray his thoughts and he blinked.

"It is… nothing," he finally replied, moving about the room and securing his few belongings before sliding the heavy room key into his waistcoat's inner pocket where its weight hung heavily, cool even through the material of his shirt. _Nothing._ No, that wasn't entirely true. The less-than-truth weighed unpleasantly on his tongue.

"You're sure it's nothing?"

Frowning, he shrugged into his jacket and turned to face Hawke again. "It is only… you were discomfited earlier by the—"

"Hotel staff," she finished for him with a grimace, her voice low as she stole a glance over her shoulder to the door, still hanging open. "Still am, if we're to be honest, but… as we discussed it's better if I act like an adult about it."

It was then he decided to tell her what he'd seen, but when Fenris explained to her the number of Tranquil waiters he'd spotted in the hotel dining room, Hawke's expression slid briefly to one of dismay before hardening into resolve.

"I see." Hawke gnawed her lip a moment, then squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely. "Well. I'm glad you told me, in any case." She sent him a tight, determined smile as they moved into the hallway together and turned their steps toward the stairway. "Thank you, Fenris."

"You… are welcome, Hawke."

#

Dinner turned out to be a blessedly uneventful affair.

Though Hawke had appeared momentarily unnerved at the Tranquil servers in the dining area, Fenris watched as, one by one, she tamped down whatever fears or worries might have been plaguing her, putting up a wall of polite charm as her defense. The change reminded him heavily of their first meeting, when she had charmed an audience with showmanship and charisma, but he now was able to identify the differentiation for the defense mechanism it was.

It was, after all, a very convincing act, when she had time to prepare it.

All the same, Fenris noted she ate little more than half her perfectly-prepared meal, despite the fact that the fare had been remarkable, the menu boasting trout, which Isabela claimed divine—Fenris left her to that particular opinion—lamb and roasted game and any number of exotic, chilled desserts, the likes of which Fenris hadn't seen since leaving the Imperium. Hawke, however, declined dessert, and much of her meal had been pushed around on her plate. Wine, however, she'd had plenty of, evidenced by the deeper flush at her cheeks.

"Seems to me," Varric said, leaning back in his chair, looking entirely satisfied by both the quantity and quality of food, "it's time to hunt down a little entertainment in this town."

"Mmm," agreed Isabela, holding up her glass of port, admiring the way the scant remaining drops of liquor gleamed in the lamplight before she tipped the glass against her lips, draining it. "Nothing like a good meal to put one in the mood for a game of cards."

"Isabela, watching paint dry would put you in the mood for a card game," Hawke observed dryly.

"Of course it would," she retorted with a laugh. "Watching paint dry is _boring._"

Before Hawke could toss back a rejoinder, Varric tilted his head, regarding her, and asked, "What about you, Hawke?"

She wrinkled her nose, considering. "I thought I'd just go back upstairs and—"

"Kitten," Isabela drawled, the barest hint of a warning injected into her tone.

Hawke made a face. "Or maybe I'll just go for a little walk," she said with false brightness. "Get some air."

"And then join us at cards," prompted Isabela. Hawke did not look convinced.

Throwing Isabela a shrewd look, Varric said, "You just want her to join in because she can't cheat worth a damn when she's had a few." He nodded at Hawke, adding, "A walk's probably a good idea." And then the dwarf settled back in his chair, telegraphing a very meaningful look Fenris' way.

The gesture, he found, grated slightly, and Fenris wasn't sure whether it was that the dwarf was giving him such an eloquent look at all, or if it had more to do with the fact he'd already considered how unwise it would have been for Hawke to go wandering alone about Kinloch Hold. He had no idea how much time had elapsed since her last tincture dosage, and though her hands weren't the least bit unsteady, the wine had rendered her speech slower and more cautious. Slow enough and cautious enough he'd already given thought to accompanying her.

"I found my room rather close," he said, pointedly ignoring Varric's gaze. "Perhaps some fresh air would help."

Hawke blinked owlishly at him. "You… want to go for a walk?"

Five minutes ago, perhaps, he did not. But now the idea seemed less distasteful than he'd originally thought. "It would do, if nothing else, to check on the horses."

"All right," she replied slowly, eyes narrowing at him as if searching for falsehoods. Before he could wonder what she saw, what she found when she looked so very closely, Hawke smiled and pushed to her feet, pausing only to reach into the sugar bowl set at the center of the table, plucking up a handful of sugar cubes and dropping them into her purse.

After settling the bill, they exited through the hotel's wide double doors, which opened out onto a street every bit as busy in the evening as it had been in the afternoon. Gas lamps lit the street with dancing light, illuminating men and women walking past, arm in arm; a trio of laughing young women stood in front of the theater where The Denerim Players were putting on a production of _Maferath_. A fourth joined them, hurrying down the street, hands hitched in her skirts; they greeted her and disappeared into the theatre together.

"While you were making yourself dainty," Varric said, addressing Hawke and Isabela, "I took a stroll around town myself. From what I hear, if there's a game of Wicked Grace going on in this town, it'll be at The Spoiled Princess." He jerked a thumb to the right and looked up at Isabela. "You up for seeing how they do gambling in this town?"

Isabela snorted. "I'm up for seeing how they do _losing_ in this town."

Varric grinned, then gave a shrug. "Same difference." And, with nothing more than a backwards wave, they departed, and Fenris was suddenly certain if there was not already a game of Wicked Grace in progress, there soon would be.

Beside him, Hawke let out a soft snort of laughter. He sent her a sidelong glance. "Do you wish to join them?"

"Another time, maybe." She turned, tipping her head, indicating which way the stables were. "Another town, definitely. Shall we?"

He nodded and they strode off in the opposite direction, walking the short distance to the stables. The stablemaster was gone for the night, the lead groom, a young man of no more than eighteen, with a thatch of shockingly red hair explained, but there was no problem if they wanted to check up on their animals. He smiled at them both, though his smile lingered on Hawke several seconds longer.

Before Fenris could wonder if she were even aware of the attention, Hawke ducked her head demurely, offering the young man a smile of her own.

"Thank you so much," she said, fingers plucking at the string on her purse. "I'm sure he's in capable hands. It's just I get so _worried_ about him in a strange place overnight."

"Been watching over him like he's my own, miss," the groom said, and even in the dim light there was no mistaking his flush.

"I'm sure you have…?" she answered sweetly, her voice canting upward inquisitively.

The groom pulled off his cap. "Jonah, miss. I-it's… Jonah. I…" he cleared his throat, chest puffing out with pride. "I watch the horses on the overnight, while the stablemaster's off."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jonah," replied Hawke, dimpling at the groom. "So it's likely you we'll be seeing in the morning, then? We're only stopping over for the night." At his confusion—and dismay, Fenris noted—Hawke added quickly, "But it's really just a lovely little town." She dipped her head, adding with a shyness Fenris had never heard from her before, "It's such a shame we can't stay longer."

The young man beamed while Fenris managed to avoid rolling his eyes, though it took a supreme effort to do so. "We're very proud of it, miss."

Fenris cleared his throat. "You wished to check the horses," he reminded Hawke, unable to completely smother the groundless irritation flaring beneath his breast. Hawke nodded, offering a quick, apologetic smile to the groom, and they made their way down a corridor of stalls, enough to board about twenty horses at a time. More than half the stalls were filled, and it was a short search before they found Agrippa and Falcon, both chewing sedately on hay.

"He was a little young for you," Fenris observed in a dry undertone as Hawke reached into her purse for the sugar cubes. Falcon perked up immediately, and Agrippa craned her neck to see what her neighbor was nickering about.

Hawke did not blush, or look abashed in any way. She just chuckled softly, shaking her head as Falcon licked three sugar cubes from her open palm. She then offered sugar cubes to Agrippa, who took them as avidly as Falcon had. "More flies with honey, Fenris," she explained softly. "If we need to get out early tomorrow, Jonah will likely be far more willing to oblige us."

"Do you anticipate needing an early departure?"

She sighed, withdrawing more sugar cubes and offering some first to Falcon and next to Agrippa. "Anticipate? No." She frowned at her hand, slick with horse spittle and smears of mostly-chewed hay, and Fenris pulled a handkerchief free from an inner pocket, handing it to her. Hawke's fingertips grazed his as she took the cloth, and she smiled her thanks as she wiped her palm clean—a softer, slightly self-deprecating, and far more genuine thing than any of the charms she'd aimed at the groom, he realized. "Call it a contingency plan."

He watched Hawke fold the handkerchief, carefully tucking away the green streaks of horse saliva before handing it back to him, thinking all the while of contingency plans and his intimate understanding of their necessity.

"There now. We've checked on the horses and they appear to be doing all right. Shall we check on our compatriots?" she asked as he pushed the white—less so, now—cloth back into a pocket. "Three coppers says they've got a game of no fewer than six going."

"You're so certain?" Fenris asked, but did not argue as they turned their steps in search of The Spoiled Princess.

Hawke laughed and shot him an amused sidelong glance. "You're only saying that because you don't know Isabela like I do. Trust me, stronger men than templars have succumbed to her charms."

It was a short walk to the saloon, the wind off the lake turning the night air chilly. The light blazing from The Spoiled Princess' front window, however, looked bright enough to ward off the bitterest cold. Hawke peered in through the front window, where she saw Varric and Isabela, deeply embroiled in what looked like a game of diamondback, surrounded by four men and three women, at least five of which were templars, if the badges upon their chests were anything to go by. The pile in the center of the table was small, but Fenris knew the game well enough to know the pile of winnings would be at least five times what it was by the time the game concluded.

"Do you play cards at all?" Hawke asked, watching the game with avid, narrowed eyes. Fenris followed her gaze; one of the templars held a worthless hand, and yet tossed coins onto the pile as if he'd already won it. She made a little derisive sound, deep in her throat.

"I play enough to know he will not last an hour playing like that."

She tipped her head, yellow lamplight catching her eyes as she sent him a conspirator's grin. "Highever, then. We'll find a game there and give those two a little competition. What do you say?"

Fenris looked once more through the front window, his musings fading for the moment beneath the prospect of a journey measured not by how many hunters he'd had to evade, but marked rather by towns and people and card games.

"I… believe I look forward to it."


	12. Chapter 12

Dawn came as dawn does, creeping slowly over the horizon, a sliver of light expanding, stretching into a blinding, fiery circle, bathing everything below it in light punctuated only by long shadows that would grow shorter as the day wore on. Of them all, Isabela was the least pleased about being awake and dressed at such an hour, but a successful night around the card table had made her purse heavier, which in turn made her less annoyed than she might otherwise have been under the same circumstances. Varric greeted the morning as if the evening had been a long one, but Amelle suspected his winnings were no less impressive than Isabela's, which probably explained why he was so very sanguine about the hour. Fenris, though quiet (and she was accustomed to that), was as awake and alert as she'd ever seen him.

She also didn't think she imagined the flicker of annoyance crossing Fenris' face when it turned out Jonah had been as good as his word: an early departure looked as if it wasn't going to be a difficulty at all.

The horses had been fed, watered, groomed to within an inch of their lives, and tacked up by the time they made it down to the stables. With the help of two other grooms—both of whom appeared incredibly taken with Isabela—the packs and bedrolls were strapped into place, and with that morning's magebane dose already an hour into Amelle's system, all she needed was a leg up onto Falcon and they could be on their way, leaving Kinloch Hold a distant memory behind them.

Then the deep, metallic clang of a bell shattered the morning peace, sharply enough that Agrippa and Falcon pawed the ground nervously while Tango pranced to the side. Only Cedric lowered his head to catch a tangle of stray hay between his teeth, chewing it sedately. The sound had startled them all, humans included, but it was Jonah who looked truly alarmed at the noise.

"What is that?" Amelle asked as Isabela groaned, "And how much longer are they going to _ring_ it?"

Shaking his head as if the ringing bell were a figment he could drive off, Jonah turned quick steps toward the front of the stable; Amelle followed in time to see a cluster of men—templars, by their badges—come up the main street before breaking off into groups of two and three and dispersing into the town.

"What is it?" Amelle breathed again. She glanced over her shoulder to find Fenris standing behind her, watching the main street, his expression inscrutable.

"It's the alarm," explained Jonah. "It means someone's broken out of the Circle."

"Someone?" echoed Amelle, her stomach dropping suddenly, violently, somewhere down to the vicinity of her toes.

"A mage, miss."

A mage. A mage had—had _broken out_ of the Circle.

Granted, nobody broke out of places they didn't mind being. Nobody broke out of places they were allowed to leave. No matter how useful mages were to Kinloch Hold, no matter whether they were paid a stipend for their work or not, they were still human beings who'd been taken away from their homes. And something about this development left Amelle feeling vaguely justified in her unease.

"We have to get out of here," Amelle breathed, struggling to speak past the sudden lump in her throat, one she was almost certain was her pounding heart. "So we… so we aren't underfoot," she added as an afterthought.

But Jonah had started shaking his head before she'd even finished speaking. "That won't do, miss. The whole town goes on lockdown after a breakout, until either the mage is brought back, or the Templar Marshall calls it."

"How long's that usually take?" asked Varric.

"Five days was the longest—no one in or out—and they never found that mage, either."

"Five _days_?" Amelle echoed weakly, her mind spinning. She could not stay here five days. Beyond the obvious reasons, they had a ship to board in Highever—they _couldn't_ stay. _She_ couldn't stay.

"Listen, sweet thing," Isabela purred, and Amelle envied her the grip she evidently had on her control. "Kitten's little brother is a templar in Kirkwall. She's on her way up for a visit, hasn't seen him in five years, poor thing, and their mother's sick… you wouldn't really make her wait five days all for one little mage on the run would you?"

Jonah looked very much like he wanted very badly to acquiesce to Isabela's request. "I'm sorry, miss, truly I am, but it's not up to me. Marshall Greagoir's the one who announces the lockdown. He's the only one who can break it."

Isabela's words came out in a frustrated sigh. "Of course he is."

"That was years ago anyway," Jonah offered brightly, as if doing so might turn Isabela's attention back his way. It didn't. "Hasn't been a breakout in Kinloch Hold in the better part of six months. Least two years before that."

Varric stepped away from Cedric, the shaggy pony giving a shake of his thick mane as he did. "Why don't I go see what I can find out?" Varric said. "Ask the right questions, you never know what you're gonna find." He started down the corridor of stalls, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at Isabela. "You coming, Rivaini?"

"Why do I have to go?" she asked, her dark mood budging not an iota.

"Because," Varric explained with long-suffering patience, "when templars won't talk to me, there's a damn good chance they'll talk to you. It's your own fault for being prettier than me."

"Without all the chest hair."

"Hey, nobody's perfect."

They headed out of the stables, voices floating behind them until the sound of their footsteps and their conversation faded away. Once they were gone, Amelle flopped down to sit on a bale of hay.

"Got any cards?" she asked, pushing forward a smile she knew was too weak, too forced to be genuine. Amelle suspected Fenris saw and recognized that too, but rather than commenting, he reached into one of the worn saddlebags hanging along Agrippa's flank, and pulled out an equally worn deck of cards.

Her expression must have evidenced surprise, for his own closed off suddenly, his tone defensive.

"Is it somehow unusual," he asked coolly as he began shuffling the cards, "for a man to carry playing cards?"

"You have to admit, it's a rather sociable past-time, and you, Fenris, do not strike me as terribly sociable," she said, watching his long, white-lined fingers as he shuffled the cards—Fenris didn't have half as much flair as Isabela, nor were his fingers quite so nimble as Varric's, but he shuffled quickly and cleanly. There was no room for artifice, no room for deception in the movements. At that moment Amelle would have bet her entire lyrium stash that Fenris was an honest card player.

Maker help him against Isabela.

"Sociable," he echoed with a dry laugh. "You yourself have learned the importance of behaving in a manner counter to your own inclinations. Do you truly think no one else can have learned such a lesson earlier than you?"

Amelle looked up to find Fenris watching her, his expression arch.

All right, so maybe he wasn't _quite_ so honest a card player.

"Just deal, all right?" she retorted with a huff.

Fenris dealt the cards between them; Amelle's attention was not, however, entirely on their game. She kept one ear cocked, straining to hear Isabela and Varric's approach. With every minute that passed, she ordered and reordered her cards, losing hand after hand and glad she hadn't done anything completely idiotic, like offering to play for money.

Fenris was a better bluffer than she'd given him initial credit for being, though she was still sure he was—more or less—an honest hand at cards. She wondered, suddenly, what this meant for her. Bluffing around a card table was one thing, but what if it came down to bluffing a bigger game? One word from him could lead to her incarceration, magebane or no, and they were currently in a town that was literally _crawling_ with templar deputies. She glanced up from her hand to find Fenris watching her closely, eyes narrowed; she hoped he was just looking for tells.

As it turned out, Amelle didn't have a chance to ponder the matter any further than she had already. Heavy booted steps tromped into the stable, each footfall a dull, hollow echo against the wood. Jonah paled as he leapt to his feet and hurried off to meet the owners of such heavy footsteps. Amelle had a feeling she already knew.

"Morning, Jonah—sorry about the inconvenience. Just a cursory search of the stalls and we'll be out of your hair."

"The stablemaster isn't—"

"Eli's on his way. Spoke with him first." The voice sounded almost amused. "Said he wanted us to check the stalls and go on our damned way. Don't suppose you know of any mages hiding in here?"

Amelle's grip on her cards tightened, bending them beneath her thumbs.

"No, sers," the stablehand answered earnestly. "A mage wouldn't find a good spot to hide in here. Not with all the—"

"Horses," the templar finished for him. "Eli said the same thing." A mighty put-upon sigh followed. "All the same, the Marshall wants us to leave no stone unturned, no stall unchecked. We'll make it quick and try not to unsettle the horses too much. Eli's got a mean left hook when he's feeling ornery—meaner when he thinks someone's been fussing with the animals."

"Yes, sers."

Amelle held her breath as the footsteps drew nearer.

"Anything unusual going on this morning?" the second voice asked.

"We've got a few horses saddled up already," Jonah explained as he led the templars down the lone line of stalls. He raised his voice over the long squeals of protesting hinges as stall doors were opened and closed. "Just folks passing through."

The rustle of hay followed and Amelle tried to remember to breathe.

"Good looking animals," the first voice said as they passed the horses in their cross-ties. "Hopefully this won't take long and they can head out on their way."

The templars came around the corner then, passing the little niche where she and Fenris sat upon the haybale, cards in hand.

Amelle strove to keep her features neutral. Harmless, even. They were looking for a specific mage, and she wasn't it. What would a person who had no reason whatsoever to worry about a templar presence _do_ in a situation like this one? Keep her eyes on her cards? Bid them good morning? Swoon and faint at the thought of one of those wretched mages being on the loose?

The two deputies stopped to take note of their card game. It was a small miracle Amelle's heart hadn't thundered its way out of her chest.

"Miss," one of them said in greeting.

Amelle looked up, a bland, perfectly pleasant smile in place. Templars, two of them, with badges on their chests and gunbelts slung on their hips, cavalry swords hanging to one side, gently curved and maliciously sharp. She would bid them a good morning, act appropriately distraught about the state of affairs and—

The two templars exchanged a look. One of them glanced at a piece of paper in his hand and nodded while the other wore an expression of long-suffering.

"Come with us, please," said Long-Suffering.

_What?_

"What?" Amelle blurted, darting a furtive glance at Fenris, who looked as baffled as she _felt._

But the deputies were already reaching for her arms and as Amelle darted back, cards falling from nerveless fingers, she caught a glimpse of the paper in the second templar's hand.

It was a daguerreotype of a woman, and it looked _just like her._

Amelle Hawke well and truly _hated_ Kinloch Hold.

"I believe you've made some sort of mistake," Fenris said, and _Maker_, she envied him his calm.

"Did you intend to accompany this woman out of Kinloch Hold?" asked Daguerreotype.

"I did," Fenris replied evenly as Long-Suffering hauled Amelle to her feet, pulling the leather satchel that hung across her chest over her head and handing it over to Daguerreotype. "As I have been traveling in her company since Lothering and will continue on so until Kirkwall."

Long-Suffering looked at Jonah, who was staring at the unfolding scene, wide-eyed. "Sers, this— this woman was in the stables last night. I don't— I don't see how…"

But the deputy only shook his head and sent Amelle a disapproving glare. "Marshall's not going to like a mage trying to control anyone's minds."

"What—_what?_" Amelle sputtered, wishing she could find some other words that were slightly more eloquent. "I haven't—I'm not _controlling_ anyone!" Mind control was definite blood magic territory, and if her father had taught her anything, it was that the very _last thing_ a spirit healer needed to get herself tangled up in was blood magic. Spirit healing was dangerous enough on its own without involving darker forces. The sheer insinuation she was the type of person _to_ control the mind of another was enough to spark some very real indignation.

Daguerreotype peered into her satchel and shook his head. "Looks like potions to me."

"Oh, Maker's _breath,_ those are ointments for the horses!" she shouted. "Elfroot potion! You don't need to be a mage to make _potions!_ I'm a healer, for Andraste's sake!"

There was still a very quiet, very rational place in her brain that pointed out to her shouting at templars might not have been the best idea. It was also the place where she marveled at the fact that she was shouting in the first place; her indignation was genuine, and she had not uttered one untruth so far this morning, for all the good it was doing her. It also happened to be where a single and completely terrifying question spawned:

_What if the magebane _didn't_ hide her from the templars?_

They were going on appearance right now, and neither Long-Suffering nor Daguerreotype had made any attempt to sense her magic, but _what if they did?_ What then?

"A healer who happens to look a great deal like the Circle's missing mage," Long-Suffering told her, his grip like iron on her arms. "Come along, now."

As they towed her away, her feet stumbling as she tried to resist the fingers scything into her arms Amelle shot one terrified glance over her shoulder to find Fenris on his feet and following them, his face set like stone.

"The woman in that picture _isn't me_," she insisted. "I won't deny there's a resemblance, but I just arrived in town last night. My friends and I are passing through to Kirkwall. My brother's a templar there—" this news, at least, caused a stutter in Long-Suffering's stride "—he's one of Marshall Stannard's deputies. Maker's breath, if I were an escaped mage, would I be headed that way?"

"Still going to have to take you to Marshall Greagoir," Long-Suffering told her.

If anyone could, the Marshall would be able to sense her magic past the magebane. If he did not, then the tincture worked as well as she could have hoped. This was the one test she'd hoped to avoid.

The man in question, as it turned out, was to be found in the gazebo gracing the town square; deep in conference with three more deputies, his head came up at the sound of Amelle's protests. Rather than waiting for Long-Suffering and Daguerreotype to drag her all the way to the gazebo, he left his post and met them halfway.

Templar Marshall Greagoir was, if nothing else, very tall. Very tall and very broad, with hair the color of iron and eyes like flinty steel. He was also looking down at Amelle as if she were a particularly perplexing puzzle piece. This was worlds better than him looking at her as if she were an escaped mage, so Amelle snapped her mouth shut and waited.

"We've found her, ser."

"Maker's _blood,_" Amelle groaned. "No, they _didn't._"

Greagoir arched an eyebrow at her interjection, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Is that so?"

Daguerreotype handed over Amelle's satchel to Greagoir. "We found these on her. Potions, ser."

Looking thoughtful, Greagoir pulled one of the vials free and unstoppered it, smelling the neck of the bottle curiously. "This is elfroot potion, Deputy Baker."

The templar previously known as Daguerreotype blinked. "Yes, ser?"

"You could buy this yourself at any apothecary shop." He began rifling through the other potions and ointments in the bag, peering at brightly colored liquids, sniffing the contents of her jars and bottles until he was satisfied. "There is no contraband on this young miss' person."

Sensing—and hoping—the Marshall was a man of sense, Amelle said, "Ser, my friends and I arrived in Kinloch Hold last night." _Please don't sense my magic. Please don't sense my magic. Please don't sense my magic._ "Ask anyone—I spoke with Jonah at the stables last night and let him know we were considering an early departure. The clerk—the clerk at the hotel! She'd remember me, she—or the bathing attendant would—I'm sure of it."

The longer she spoke, the easier it was to breathe, and instead of growing more frantic, her pulse—though it was still galloping like Falcon with a wild hair—was gradually coming back under her control. She took another breath and plunged on. "I haven't _controlled_ anyone's mind, and if I look anything at all like the woman in that picture, it is nothing but pure dumb luck, I assure you."

"Which of you has this daguerreotype?"

"I do, ser," Baker said, stepping forward, extending the hand that still held the young woman's likeness. Greagoir took it and stared hard at the image.

"This is, you will agree, an uncanny resemblance."

"That is all it is," came Fenris' voice from behind her, a sound so welcome she could have wept.

One of the marshall's thick eyebrows arched. "And you are?"

"I am one of this woman's traveling companions and have been since Lothering." He paused, brows twitching. "Before that, if I am to be accurate. We first crossed paths in Ostagar."

Greagoir shot his deputies a particularly eloquent _look._ "I assume you've got something to say for yourself, Baker?" He turned flinty eyes on Long-Suffering. "And you, Callhoun?"

Callhoun cleared his throat and shifted his weight. The grips on Amelle's arms were not quite so bruising as they'd been earlier. "We thought, ser. We thought she might have—"

"They accused me of controlling men's minds, Marshall."

"Ah, yes," Greagoir intoned. "The sensible conclusion." He turned his attention back to his two deputies. "Did neither of you consider sensing magic on this young woman?"

It became evident neither Baker nor Callhoun had considered that particular option by the way they shamefacedly released their grip on her arms.

"She is no mage."

Relief, sweet and cool and _perfect_ coursed down her spine and Amelle drew a deep breath in, letting it out slowly. _She is no mage._ If there were four more beautiful words ever spoken, she didn't know them. Four words that were entirely worth every failed test.

Greagoir examined Amelle's satchel a moment before handing it back. "The buckle is bent. I suspect one of my deputies damaged it in his… haste. You have my apologies, and I'm sure if you take it to the blacksmith, he will be able to fix it for—"

Screams, ragged and rage-filled, cut through the air, and once again the Marshall lifted his head. At this distance he reminded Amelle of a dog on the hunt. She clutched the straps of her satchel and watched him intercept three templars who had in their custody another young woman—a young woman roughly her build, with hair as short but far redder than hers, and in a face that was fuller and softer than Amelle's own were eyes so sharply blue they made the sky look dull in comparison. The sleeves of her dress smoldered as she thrashed and fought and screamed.

Nausea began to uncoil in the pit of Amelle's stomach. She was—and she _knew it_—just as much a mage as this woman, and yet somehow she'd managed to avoid the templars' notice—had, as point of fact, just avoided notice. Now, though, her heart clutched with guilt as she watched raw, naked fear twist and contort the woman's features.

Greagoir glanced briefly at the daguerreotype he still held, sparing a longer look at the woman's sleeves. Amelle watched as the end of a dangling thread glowed brightly before falling from her cuff and floating to the ground, nothing more than ash. When she looked up from where the blackened strand had finally landed, she found the mage's startlingly blue eyes focused on her. Where Amelle had seen a resemblance in the picture of the woman, she saw no such similarity when placed face to face with her.

Or perhaps fear had transformed her so completely.

Suddenly those blue eyes narrowed. "It isn't _me_ you want!" she cried, fighting against the templars holding her. "It's _her._ She's the mage! I'm not—_I'm not!_ Can't you tell? It's her!" she yelled, her voice going shriller and shriller, until it was nearly a shriek. "It's her!" she said again. _"It's her, not me! Can't you tell?_"

Amelle took a step back, fingers gripping the leather satchel straps so tightly her knuckles ached. She knew, intellectually, that if a templar couldn't sense her magic under the magebane, then it was highly unlikely another mage could. She took another step when she backed into a chest. A white-lined hand came to her shoulder, steadying her.

_"Can't you tell?"_

Baker drew back, one hand on his sword, the other on his pistol while Greagoir and Callhoun—his expression nothing even close to long-suffering now—stepped forward, white light gathering about their hands, extending up their arms, and even though Amelle's magic was dormant and silent, she still felt the pull of holy energy charge the air. She had never had any cause to witness a smite in person, and yet she had every reason to believe that was precisely what both men were preparing.

From the corner of her eye, Amelle saw Varric and Isabela come skidding around a corner. Isabela's eyes went wide and her lips formed an easily read obscenity.

Amelle jerked her gaze back to the mage and templars, and wished she hadn't.

While it was quite true she'd never seen a templar deliver a holy smite, and had no desire whatsoever to witness it, it was also true Amelle had never witnessed another mage become an abomination.

Everything happened too fast. Too fast.

There came a glow from the woman's skin, if "glow" could be the right word. The light pulsing from her skin was dark, and the wrongness of the sight was like discordant chords made manifest—light wasn't dark, couldn't be dark, and yet the power emanating from her skin came off in waves of black and purple. The mage's face began to stretch, her features distorting, her skin bubbling and shuddering and finally darkening to grey; her hair, so deeply red, darkened and went lank across a forehead too wide, too sloping. Her blue eyes bulged and rolled in her head as her body thickened and grew until the thing it became—_abomination_—towered over them all.

It twisted with a violent lurch, and the templars that had been gripping the mage's arms were sent sailing through the air in opposite directions, both landing on the ground with a sick thud. One man got up, shakily. The other did not. He lay motionless in the street, his head twisted at an impossible angle.

Greagoir and Callhoun's smites hadn't yet finished gathering, so rapid was the mage's transformation. Greagoir let the light flare off into nothing, and freed his revolver from its holster instead, taking aim and firing, bullets not so much piercing the abomination's hide, but merely lodging in it. Amelle had heard it said templars favored lead bullets infused with magebane, but if Greagoir's bullets had been so treated, they were not affecting the abomination.

Perhaps because it was no longer a mage.

Callhoun, however, his brow creased in determination, held his ground. The light had reached as high as his shoulders and was building, growing brighter, brighter, _brighter—_

Unaffected by Greagoir's unerring shots, the abomination turned with a screech, and with one swipe of its claws, the light of Callhoun's smite went suddenly dark as his head flung back, blood spurting forth from his throat. The force of the strike sent him backward, where he landed hard on the ground, eyes staring upward, mouth gaping open, dark blood pooling thickly in the grit of the street.

She could not tear her eyes from the horrible, lurching _thing_ that had once been a woman.

The thing that had once been a _mage._

#

Fenris had known this could not end well. The fact that the altercation had turned even worse than his expectations only left him grimly unsurprised. The sound of gunfire had brought a number of templars running, but a majority, he surmised, had likely been sent beyond the town's limits to search for the escaped mage.

From the corner of his eye, he spied Varric and Isabela; the former cradled his crossbow in his hands while the latter bore a shining dagger in either fist. Hawke's staff, he knew, was wrapped in oilcloth and hidden amongst her things. Even if it hadn't been, it would not have been a wise weapon to bear. But before he could say a word she moved past him, running towards where the dead templar lay, his neck broken, and freed the revolver from his belt.

Unfortunately, bullets and crossbow bolts appeared to be having very little effect. They needed to get in _closer. _Whipping around, he looked back at Amelle, standing over the fallen templar, the .45 settled in both hands. She wasn't firing, though; Hawke was staring at the monstrosity, eyes narrowed.

She saw the same thing he did.

The ring of a sword being drawn from a scabbard caught Fenris' ear and when he looked back at the abomination, it was to find the Templar Marshall with his sword drawn, while Baker the other men distracted the beast with gunfire.

One man alone could not manage such a task.

"Hawke!" he shouted, twisting back to face her. She lifted her eyes from the weapon's sight and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. _"Sword!_"

Hawke did not argue. She did not question. She did, however, look at him as if he'd taken leave of his senses, which was… perhaps a possibility. But she crouched down and pulled the cavalry sword free with a long, grinding hiss, placing it on the ground and with a sharp push she sent it skittering his way. He bent, snatching the weapon up by the grip; it was nowhere near as long as he'd have preferred, and with such a length to work with he would have to get in close to the creature indeed, but they were all of them running short on options.

Sword in hand, Fenris sprinted forward to join Greagoir—Baker and several more templars had been rent by the creatures claws and lay, dead or near it, bleeding in the street.

And they with a healer who could not reveal the truest part of herself.

"Well, Broody," Isabela's voice said suddenly from his side. "This is how it is when your horse isn't collapsed on top of you?" She flashed a smile as bright as her daggers. "Interesting." And then, with a wink, she danced in close to the abomination, her blades sinking so deeply into the abomination's thick hide that black fluid oozed forth from the wounds. The stench of it was beyond belief and the abomination's furious scream tore at his ears, but it was _wounded._

That it was wounded also meant it was _angry. _Another violent shriek seared the air as the abomination lunged forward, its mouth gaping open to reveal line after endless line of knife-sharp teeth, its claws slashing—Isabela swore as those claws caught her arm, tearing the sleeve of her shirt and making the material blossom with blood—his own borrowed sword sunk deeply into the thick hide, pulling forth even more screams as black ooze slid from the wounds, leaving dark trails down the creature's skin. Bile burned his throat at the stink of it.

Then the air shifted and a wave of magic burst forth that was so wrong, so twisted, so hideous that it made the lyrium in his skin flare in defense. Isabela angled herself out of the way at the last, blood still dripping from her arm, but the blast hit Fenris and Greagoir unerringly, sending them both soaring back. He landed with such force that the air was knocked from his lungs, and had only pushed himself up to one knee when the monstrosity lurched forward, talons clicking in anticipation, its mouth wide as thick saliva dripped from its maw. His hand tightened on the sword, and though he struggled to draw in a breath, Fenris' muscles coiled in anticipation as the abomination loomed closer—

And then it reeled back, its screech now nearly an octave higher—there was still rage in it, he thought, but there was something else too, something…

When Fenris looked up, it was to find splinters of glass embedded in the abomination's face, liquid streaming into its eyes.

A glance back revealed Hawke, balancing precariously on the gazebo's balustrade, one arm wrapped around a beam for balance—in that hand the borrowed revolver hung from her fingers, its chamber likely empty, given Hawke's current brand of ammunition: in her other hand she held a vial of jewel-purple liquid. With a grunt, she flung it, and the bottle sailed end over end before exploding into shards and droplets against the abomination's face, the liquid running once more into its eyes. It shrieked again, clawing at its face.

She was _blinding_ it.

"Nice one!" Isabela cried, twisting close once again to the beast and plunging daggers into its skin. Fenris and Greagoir followed suit, pushing in close and slashing the tough hide with tougher blades until foul blood coursed from the wounds, spilling thickly onto the ground, and so it went until the air shuddered again and the thing that had been a mage once, that had been _human_ once, was nothing more than foul pulp.

The resultant silence was nearly startling. All at once it had ended—the gunfire, the screams, the cacophony of rotten magic shifting through the air. The world was as silent, as peaceful as it had been before the bell had split the dawn into pieces.

"I sincerely hope, Marshall," Hawke said shakily as she lowered herself back to the ground, the bottles within her satchel clinking gently as she moved. "This means we'll be free to move on now."

Fenris rather imagined that was precisely what it meant.


End file.
